


The Sword of Destiny

by Pandigital



Series: The Templar series [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ciri!Lavellan, F/M, M/M, Triss!Dorian, Witcher!Cullen, Yennefer!Vivienne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:23:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandigital/pseuds/Pandigital
Summary: Part two of The Templar series.





	1. Mutants are sterile

"He's not coming back out, I tell you!" stated a pimply-faced man, shaking his head with finality, "It's been an hour and a quarter since he went in. He's done for."

The townsfolk, huddled together in the midst of the ruins and rubble, watched the gaping black hole of the entrance to the tunnel in silence. A fat man dressed in a yellow smock shifted slightly from one foot to the other, cleared his throat and pulled his wrinkled cap from his head.

"We have to wait a bit longer," he said as he wiped the sweat from his sparse eyebrows.

"Why wait?" snorted pimply, "There in the caves lurks a basilisk, or have you forgotten, burgrave? Anyone goes down there, that's the end of them. Have you forgotten how many have died down there already? What are we waiting for?"

"This was the agreement, wasn't it?" murmured the fat man uncertainty.

"An agreement you made with a living man, burgrave" said the pimply-faced man's companion, a giant of a man in a leather butcher's apron, "He is now dead, as surely as the sun shines in the sky. It was plain from the beginning that he was headed towards death, like all the others before him. He didn't even take a mirror with him, only a sword - and everybody knows you need a mirror in order to kill a basilisk."

"At least we've saved some coin," added pimples "there's no one to pay for taking care of the basilisk. You might as well go home. As far as the sorcerer's horse and baggage... well it would be a shame if they went to waste."

"Yes," said the butcher, "It's a fine old mare and the saddlebags are full. Let's take a look."

"What are you doing?"

"Shut up, burgrave. Don't get in the way unless you want a punch in the face," threatened the pimpled man.

"A fine old mare," repeated the butcher.

"Leave the horse alone, my darling."

The butcher slowly turned around towards the stranger who had suddenly appeared from behind a collapsed wall, just at the back of the audience gathered around the tunnel entrance. The stranger had thick curly brown hair and wore a dark brown tunic under a puffy cotton coat and tall riding boots. He had no weapons. "Step away from the horse," he repeated with a menacing smile, "What have we here? A horse and saddlebags belonging to another and yet you eye them greedily and paw through them. Is that honourable?"

Pimply slowly slipped a hand inside his overcoat and glanced at the butcher. The butcher gave a nod and signalled toward the crowd, out of which stepped two strong, close cropped, youths. Both carried heavy clubs, like those used to stun animals in the slaughterhouse.

"Who are you?" demanded the pimply-faced man, whose hand remained hidden inside his overcoat, "to tell us what is and isn't honourable?"

"That's none of your business, my dear."

"You carry no weapons."

"That's true," the stranger's smile grew even more poisonous, "I don't carry weapons."

"That's no good," pimply drew a long knife out from inside his coat, "Too bad for you you're not armed." The butcher also drew a blade; a long hunting knife. The other two men approached, brandishing their clubs.

"I don't carry weapons," responded the stranger, not budging, "but I'm always armed." From behind the ruins, two young women stepped out lightly and confidently. The crowd quickly parted, retreated then thinned out. The girls smiled, flashing their teeth, and blinked. They had blue stripes tattooed from the corners of their eyes to the tips of their ears. Lynx pelt clad their strong muscles from thigh to hip and their bare arms curved above their mail gauntlets. From behind the mail-clad shoulder of each rose the hilt of a sabre. 

Pimply got down on one knee and slowly, very slowly, placed his knife on the ground. From the hole in ruins came a rumble of stones, grinding, and then from the darkness there emerged two hands clutching the jagged edge of the wall. Following the hands, a white head appeared, the hair powdered with brick dust, a pale face and then, finally, shoulders, above which stood the hilt of a sword. A murmur escaped the crowd. The alabaster-haired man straightened and pulled a strange shape from the hole; a small, odd looking body covered in dust and blood. Holding the beast by its long lizard-like tail, the man tossed it to the feet of the burgrave without a word. The burgrave jumped backwards and tripped on a fragment of wall, his eyes glued to a curved bird-like beak, webbed crescent- shaped wings and claws like sickles on its scaly feet. Its slashed throat, once carmine, was now a dirty red-brown. 

Its sunken eyes were glassy.

"Here's the basilisk," said the white-haired man as he brushed the dust from his trousers, "As agreed, that'll be 200 lintars, good ones, not too worn. I will check them, I'm warning you."

With shaking hands, the burgrave produced a large purse. The white-haired man looked around at the townsfolk, his gaze resting on the pimply-faced man, his discarded knife at his feet. He also noticed the man in the brown tunic and the young women in the lynx pelts.

"It's always the same," he said as he took the purse from the burgrave's nervous hands, "I risk my neck for a few measly coins and you, meanwhile, try to rob me. You people never change, damn you to hell!"

"We haven't touched your bags," the butcher muttered, backing away. The men armed with the clubs had long since hidden themselves in the crowd, "Your things have not been disturbed, sir"

"I'm glad to hear it," the white-haired man smiled. At the sight of his smile, which bloomed on his pale face like an open wound, the crowd began to disperse. "And that is why, brother, you have nothing to worry about. Go in peace. But go quickly."

Pimply, backing away, was about to run. The spots stood out on his pallid face making him look even more hideous.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" called the man in the brown tunic, "You've forgotten about something."

"What's that... sir?"

"You pulled a knife on me."

The tallest of the young women, who stood waiting with her long legs apart, turned on her hip. Her sabre, drawn faster than the eye could see, cut through the air. The head of the pimply-faced man flew upwards, tracing an arc before disappearing into the gaping hole. His body rolled stiff and heavy, like a freshly felled tree, amongst the broken rubble. The crowd cried out in unison. The second girl, her hand on the hilt of her sabre, turned agilely, covering her back. It was unnecessary - the crowd rushed and stumbled through the ruins towards the town as fast as their legs could carry them. 

At the head of the crowd, leaping impressively for such a fat man, was the burgrave - slightly ahead of the butcher.

"A beautiful strike," commented the white-haired man coldly as he shielded his eyes from the sun with a black-gloved hand, "A beautiful strike from a Fog Warriors sabre. I humbly bow before the skill and beauty of free warrior women. I am Cullen of Ferelden."

"And I..." the unknown man indicated to a faded coat of arms emblazoned on his brown tunic representing three black birds aligned on a field of gold, "I am Borch, also called Three Jackdaws. And these are my bodyguards Tea and Vea. At least that's what I call them because their true names are a tongue twister. They are both, as you so finely guessed, Fog Warriors."

"Thanks to them, or so it would seem, I still have my horse and belongings. My thanks to you, warriors, and also to you, noble lord.”

"Three Jackdaws. And I'm  _ no  _ gentleman. Is there anything keeping you in this region, Cullen of Ferelden?" 

"Nothing at all."

"Perfect. In that case, I have a proposition. Not far from here, at the crossroads on the road to the river-port, is an inn called The Pensive Dragon. The food is unequalled throughout this whole region. I'm on my way there now with the intention of dining and spending the night. It would be an honour if you would accompany me."

"Borch," replied Cullen , white head turning away from his horse, looking into the bright eyes of the stranger, "I'd like you to know so that there be no misunderstanding between us. I'm a Templar ."

"I thought as much. And you said that as if you were saying, _ I'm a leper _ ."

"There are some," Cullen replied calmly, "that would prefer the company of a leper to that of a Templar ."

Cullen can see in his mind's eye a small little elf who does not think so. She pulls him out of bed and demands to learn to fight. She has gotten better as he taught her. And he does teach her everytime he goes back to the Templar stronghold. Skyhold. A safe place; a strong place. A place built by elves and taken over by Templars eons ago. 

Where else would they hide her but here?

"And there are others," replied Three Jackdaws with a smile, "who would prefer the company of sheep to that of young ladies. In the end, all I can do is pity them. I stand by my proposal."

Cullen took off a glove and shook the stranger's outstretched hand, "I accept. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Let's be off then, I'm starving."

*****

The landlord wiped the uneven surface of the table with a cloth, bowed and smiled. He was missing two front teeth.

"Yes..." Three Jackdaws stared for a moment at the blackened ceiling and watched the spiders walking playfully across it., "First... some beer. On second thoughts, a keg of beer. And with the beer... what do you recommend, my dear?"

"Cheese?" the landlord suggested uncertainty.

"No," frowned Borch, "Cheese should be for afters. With the beer we'd like something sour and spicy."

"At your service," the landlord smiled even wider. His two front teeth were not the only ones that he lacked, "How about eels marinated in garlic and vinegar, or green pickles..."

"Perfect. For two please. And after that, some soup. Like the one I ate last time with the mussels, small fish and other crap floating in it."

"Seafood soup?"

"Yes. Next, roast lamb with eggs and onions. Then about sixty crayfish. Throw some fennel into the pan, as much as you can muster. Then ewe's cheese and a salad. After that... we'll see."

"At your service. Is that for everyone? All four of you?"

The tallest of the Fog Warriors shook her head and patted her belly significantly, accentuating the way her linen shirt clung to her body.

"I forgot," Three Jackdaws winked at Cullen, "The girls are watching their figures. Landlord! Lamb only for us two. Bring the beer and eels immediately, leave the rest for a while so that the other dishes don't get cold. We didn't come here to stuff our faces, just to spend time in pleasant conversation."

"I understand completely, sir," replied the landlord, bowing once more.

"Understanding - this is an important quality in your line of work. Give me your hand, my beauty," gold coin jingled and the landlord smiled as widely as possible.

"This is not an advance," specified Three Jackdaws, "it's a little extra. Now get back to your kitchen, my good fellow." 

It was hot in the alcove. Cullen loosened his belt, removed his doublet then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, "I see you're not troubled by lack of silver," he said with a quick sweep of the inn as he spoke, "Do you live by the privileges of knighthood?"

"Partly," Three Jackdaws smiled in answer and didn't elaborate. They made short work of the eels and quarter of the beer barrel. Although the Fog Warriors were obviously enjoying the evening, they did not drink much of the beer. They spoke together quietly until Vea suddenly burst into throaty laughter.

"Do the girls speak the common language?" asked Cullen as he watched them out of the corner of his eye. Carver had often joked that his older sister had  _ somehow  _ gotten a former Fog Warrior as a husband. He had been in training when the wedding happened. 

"Badly. And they're not exactly chatterboxes, which is nice. How's your soup, Cullen?"

"Hmm."

"Drink up."

"Hmm."

"Cullen ..." Three Jackdaws gestured with his spoon and belched, "returning for one moment to the conversation we had whilst on the road: it's my understanding, Templar, that you wander from one end of the world to the other, killing any monsters you meet along the way - for pay. That is your job, isn't it?"

"More or less."

"What if somebody personally appeals to you to go somewhere specific? Say to carry out a special order. What do you do then?"

"That depends on who's asking me and what they have in mind."

"And the wages?"

"That too," the Templar  shrugged after taking another drag of his beer deeply and happily since it was warm and the last warm meal he had was long ago, "everything becomes more expensive if you want to live well as one of my magician friends likes to say."

"Quite a selective approach, and I would say very practical. Yet there is a certain principal underlying it, Cullen. The conflict between the forces of Order and those of Chaos, as one of my wizard friends likes to say. I imagine that you always take missions that involve protecting humans from the Evil that is all around us. Undoubtedly this places you on the good side of the fence."

"The forces of Order, the forces of Chaos... what grand words, Borch. You want at all costs for me to place myself on one side of the fence in a conflict that all regard as eternal, a conflict that's been going on since before we were born and will continue long after we're gone. On which side should the blacksmith place himself in this business? Or the landlord who hurries to bring us roast lamb? What, according to you, defines the boundary between Chaos and Order?"

"It's very simple," Three Jackdaws looked the Templar  right in the eye, "Chaos represents a threat. It is on the side of violence and aggression. Order, on the other hand, opposes it. That is why it must be protected and needs someone to defend it. But let us drink and make a start on this lamb."

Cullen narrowed his eyes at those words and the clear dismissal tacked on at the end. This man reminded him of a another man he had the misfortune of meeting, 

"Good idea."

Still concerned for their figures, the Fog Warriors had taken a break from eating to devote themselves to drinking at an accelerated pace. Vea leaned on the shoulder of her companion, and murmured something in her ear, her braids brushing the tabletop. Tea, the shorter of the two, burst into laughter, her tattooed eyelids blinking merrily. Carver had met back up with his sister and her husband. He said the man was lean and covered in white ink on tan skin. Said his sister and him spoke to each other in looks and few words. He said that they loved each other. 

"Well," continued Borch, gnawing on a bone. "Let us continue our conversation, if you'll permit. I see that you prefer not to take sides in the conflict between the forces. You just want to do your job."

"Yes."

"But you cannot escape the conflict between Order and Chaos. In spite of your comparison, you're not a blacksmith. I saw how you work; you enter an underground tunnel and come out of it with a small, mangled basilisk. There is a difference, my pretty, between shoeing horses and killing basilisks. You've already indicated that you'll journey to the other side of the world to slay a certain monster if the pay is worth it. Let's say a fierce dragon destroys—"

"Bad example," interrupted Cullen, "You see, the boundary becomes blurred already. I don't kill dragons, in spite of the fact they no doubt represent Chaos."

"Why is that?" Three Jackdaws licked his fingers and then shook his head before exclaiming, "But that's outrageous! Surely of all the monsters, the dragon is the most dangerous, vicious and cruel. Most terrible of all the reptiles. It attacks humans, spits fire and it even steals virgins! Haven't you heard enough stories about that? Is it possible that you, Templar , do not have a few dragon slayings in your list of accomplishments?"

"I do not hunt dragons," Cullen replied dryly, "Giant centipedes, yes. Dracolizards, dermopterans but not real dragons, greens, blacks or reds. Make no mistake about it."

He had told a little girl a story about fighting a dragon but it a lie. She hadn’t cared at all. To her to fact that the story had a dragon and a hero was enough. If only life was really like that. Then he and all the others would be just as respected as any lorded knight. He wouldn’t have to stay away for so long and do such laborious work for little pay. He would be able to stay close to the only home he had ever known. Close to his little girl. 

"You astonish me." replied Three Jackdaws, breaking him away from his thoughts, "But nevertheless, I get the message. Enough talking about dragons for now. I see something red on the horizon; undoubtedly our crayfish. Drink up!"

They noisily broke the shells with their teeth and sucked out the white flesh. Salty water, stinging painfully, ran down to their wrists. Borch served up some more beer, scraping the bottom of the small cask with the ladle, while the Fog Warriors amused themselves by watching the goings on around them. They laughed unpleasantly at a soothsayer on the next table over and the Templar was convinced that they were looking for a fight. Three Jackdaws also noticed it and waved a crayfish at them threateningly. The girls giggled, Tea blowing him a kiss and giving him an ostentatious wink. 

Her tattoos made the gesture slightly macabre.

"They truly are wildcats," murmured Three Jackdaws to Cullen. "They must be watched all the time otherwise, in less than two seconds flat and without warning, the ground is likely to be strewn with entrails. However, they are worth all the money in the world. Did you know that they can..?"

"I know," replied Cullen, nodding. "It is difficult to find a better escort. Fog Warriors are born warriors, trained in combat from a very early age."

"I wasn't talking about that." Borch spat a crayfish pincer onto the table. "I was thinking about their performance in bed."

Cullen watched the young girls out of the corner of his eye. Both smiled and Vea seized a shellfish, as quick as a flash. She cracked the carapace with her teeth and blinked as she regarded the Templar . Her lips glistened with the salty water. Three Jackdaws belched loudly.

"So, Cullen," he continued, "you don't hunt dragons, green or otherwise. I'll bear it in mind. Why categorise them by these three colours, may I ask?"

"Four colours, to be precise."

"You only mentioned three."

"You seem to have a great interest in dragons, Borch. Is there a particular reason?"

"I'm just curious."

"These colours are the customary categorisation, although not a precise one. Green dragons are most widespread though in fact they are rather gray, like dracolizards. To tell you the truth the reds are more red brown, the colour of brick. The large dark brown dragons are usually called black dragons. Rarest of all are the white dragons. I've never seen one. They live in the far North, apparently."

"Interesting. Do you know what other types of dragons I've heard of?"

"I know," replied Cullen, swallowing a mouthful of beer. "I've also heard of them: the gold. But they don't exist."

"But how can you be sure? Just because you've never seen one? You've never seen a white one either." Borch argues with him, 

"That's not the point. Across the seas, in Seheron and Tevinter, there are white horses with black stripes. I've never seen those either, but I know that they exist. The golden dragon is a myth, a legend; like the phoenix. Phoenixes and golden dragons do not exist."

Vea, leaning on her elbows, looked at him curiously.

"You certainly know what you're talking about—you're a Templar ," said Borch drawing some more beer from the small keg. "However, I think any myth, and legend, can contain a grain of truth that sometimes can't be ignored."

"That is so," confirmed Cullen, thinking of the lovely woman who had pleaded with him to take her baby. The baby that now demands sword lessons and stories from him, "but that is the territory of dreams, hopes and desires: it's about the belief that there is no limit to what is possible, just because there is sometimes a wild chance that it might be true."

"Chance,  _ exactly _ . It may be there once was a golden dragon; the product of a single, unique mutation."

"If that's the case, that dragon would've suffered the fate of all mutants," the Templar  bowed his head, "It couldn't survive, because it's too different."

"Now you oppose natural law, Cullen! My wizard friend was in the habit of saying that each and every being can prevail in nature in one manner or another. The end of one existence always announces the beginning of another. There is no limit, at least when it comes to nature."

Cullen raises an eyebrow at him, "Your wizard friend was a huge optimist. There is one element he didn't take into consideration;  _ errors  _ made by nature or those that play with it. The golden dragon and all the other mutants of its species, even if they have existed, could not survive. A natural limit inherent in them has prevented it."

"What's that?"

"Mutants..." the muscles in Cullen 's jaw tensed, "Mutants are sterile, Borch. Only legends permit what nature condemns. Only myths can ignore the limits of what's possible.”

Three Jackdaws remained silent. Cullen saw that the girls' faces had suddenly become serious. Vea quickly leaned towards him, embracing him with her hard, muscular arms. He felt her lips on his cheek, wet with beer.

"They like you," said Three Jackdaws slowly, "The devil take it, they like you!"

"What's so strange about that?" replied the Templar , smiling sadly.

"Nothing. But a toast is necessary. Landlord! Another keg!"

The landlord itched at the back of his ears and replied sheepishly but firmly, "Not that much. A tankard at most."

"Make that two tankards!" shouted Three Jackdaws. "Tea, I must leave for a moment."

The Fog Warriors picked up her sabre from the bench as she rose before inspecting the room with a tired glance. The Templar  noticed several pairs of eyes sparkle with greed at the sight of Borch's overstuffed coin-purse, but nobody dared to follow him as he staggered in the direction of the courtyard. Tea shrugged before following her employer.

"What's your real name?" asked Cullen of the girl who remained sitting at the table.

Vea smiled revealing a line of white teeth, much of her shirt was unbuttoned as far as the last possible limit of decency allowed. Cullen did not doubt for an instant that her demeanour was designed to test the resistance of the other patrons in the room.

"Alveaenerle."

"That's beautiful." The Templar was sure that the Fog Warriors now gazed at him doe-eyed, seductively. He was not mistaken.

"Vea?"

"Hmm..."

"Why do you ride with Borch? Warriors love of freedom is well known to everyone. Can you tell me?"

"Hmm..."

Cullen took a sip of beer, "Hmm, what?"

"He is..." the Fog Warriors wrinkled her brow while she tried to find the right words, "He is the most... the most beautiful."

The Templar  shook his head. The criteria used by women to assess the desirability of men had always been an enigma to him. Three Jackdaws burst into the alcove re-buttoning his trousers and gave a loud command to the landlord. Tea, two steps behind him, feigned boredom as she looked around the tavern, the merchants and the mariners present avoiding her eyes. Vea sucked at a crayfish while casting the Templar  knowing glances.

"I'll have another order of eel for everyone, braised this time," Three Jackdaws sat down heavily, his still open belt jangled, "I'm tired of crayfish and I'm still hungry. I have reserved

you a room, Cullen. You have no reason to be wandering this night. Let's have some more fun. To your health, girls!"

" _ Vessekheal _ ," Vea replied, holding up her glass. Tea blinked and stretched. Her lovely breasts, contrary to Cullen 's expectations, did not burst out of her shirt.

"Let's have some fun!" Three Jackdaws leaned across the table, and slapped Tea on the behind, "Let's party, Templar, Hey! Landlord! Over here!" The landlord quickly approached them, wiping his hands on his apron. "Do you have a large tub? Like one for washing linen in: solid and roomy."

"How big, sir?"

"For four people."

"For... four," repeated the landlord smiling widely.

"Four," confirmed Three Jackdaws, pulling his full coin-purse out of his pocket.

"We'll find one for you," promised the landlord as he moistened his lips.

"Perfect," replied Borch, all smiles. "Order one and bring it up into my room and see that it's filled with hot water. Get to it, my dear chap, and don't forget beer and at least three tankards." The Fog Warriors laughed and winked at the Templar .

"Which do you prefer?" asked Three Jackdaws. "Huh, Cullen ?"

The Templar  scratched his head.

"I know it's a difficult choice," continued Three Jackdaws with a knowing air. "I also have trouble sometimes. Well, we will decide when we're in the tub. Hey, girls! Help me up the stairs."


	2. Lady Vivienne and a dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk of the dragon and the Lady Vivienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some names have stayed the same as the Witcher books because I am bad at names while others are from the Dragon Age Wiki.

There was a barricade on the bridge. A long and solid beam positioned on trestles, barred access to the other bank of the river. Halberdiers in buttoned leather jackets and mail were gathered there, standing guard on both sides. Aloft, a crimson pennant, bearing a silver griffin flapped in the wind.

"What the devil?" exclaimed Three Jackdaws as they approached the barricade with a scowl on his face, "We can't pass?"

"Do you have a pass?" asked the nearest halberdier, without removing from his mouth the straw he was chewing to stave off hunger or quite simply to kill time.

Jackdaws turned a nasty glare on the man, "What pass? What's going on? An epidemic of cattle plague? War? In whose name do you block the road?"

"On the order of Trian Aeducan, Lord of Caingorn." the guard moved the straw to the other corner of his mouth and indicated to the pennant, "Without safe conduct, you cannot pass."

"How stupid," interrupted Cullen in a tired voice. "We are not, however, in Caingorn but in the county of Holopole. It's just as well that Holopole and not Caingorn collects the toll on the bridges of the Braa. What's it got to do with Trian?"

"Don't ask me," replied the guard, spitting out his straw. "I'm only here to check the passes, if you want, you can ask our commanding officer."

Cullen sighed, "Where is he?"

"Over there, making the most of the sun behind the toll collector's booth," replied the guard, looking not at Cullen but at the naked thighs of The Fog Warriors which lay nonchalantly across their saddles.

A guard was sitting on a pile of dry straw behind the hut of the toll collector. He was drawing in the sand, with the end of his halberd, a picture of a woman; a rather detailed view from an unusual perspective. Next to him there was a thin man, half dozing, delicately strumming chords on a lute. An eccentric plum coloured hat decorated with a silver buckle and a long egret feather drooped over his eyes. Cullen recognized the hat and the feather so famous in Hakkon and Kirkwall and known in all the manors, castles, guest houses, inns and brothels. Especially in the brothels.

Cullen called out to him, "Alistair!"

"Templar Cullen!" merry blue eyes appeared from under the hat, "What a surprise! Is it really you? You wouldn't happen to have a pass, by chance?

Cullen gave a slight frown and asked him, "What's all this business about passes? What's going on here, Alistair? I'm travelling with the knight Borch of the Three Jackdaws and his escort and we want to cross the river."

"I'm also stuck here." Alistair rose and lifted his hat before bowing to The Fog Warriors with a courtly flourish, "They won't let me pass either;  _ me _ , Alistair , the most celebrated of minstrels and poets for a thousand miles around. It was the lieutenant who refused; and he's also an artist, as you can see."

"I can't let anyone cross without a pass," stated the lieutenant with a disconsolate air before adding the finishing touches to his sand picture with the tip of his weapon.

"We'll take a detour along the bank. It will take longer to get to Hengfors, but we don't have much choice," said the Templar with a put upon sigh.

"To Hengfors?" the bard looked surprised, "You mean you're not here to see Trian? You're not hunting the dragon?"

"What dragon?" asked Three Jackdaws, looking intrigued.

Alistair shook his head in mystified wonder as he pointed at Cullen, exclaiming, " _ You _ don't know? You really don't know? In that case, I shall tell you all about it, my lords. As I am obliged to wait here in the hope that  _ somebody  _ with a pass accepts my company, and we have lots of time. Sit down."

"Wait," interrupted Three Jackdaws with narrowed eyes as he looked at Alistair, "It's nearly midday and I'm thirsty, plague on it! We can't discuss such matters with dry throats. Tea and Vea, hurry back to town and buy a keg."

Alistair smiled wide, "I like the way you think, lord..."

"Borch, also called Three Jackdaws."

"Alistair, nicknamed The Unrivalled... by certain young ladies." he said with a wink.

"Get on with it, Alistair," interrupted the Templar, impatient. "We haven't got all day."

The bard seized the neck of his lute and violently strummed some chords, "What would you prefer? In verse or in prose?"

Cullen raised an eyebrow at him, "Normally."

"As you like." Alistair did not lay down his lute. "Listen well, noble sirs, the events took place one week ago, not far from a free city named Holopole. Ah yes, in the small hours of the morning, dawn tinting red the veil of mist in the meadows—"

"It was supposed to be normally," the Templar pointed out.

"That  _ is  _ normally, isn't it? Okay, okay, I understand. Briefly, without metaphors. Near the town of Holopole, a dragon alit—"

"Oh  **really** ?" exclaimed the Templar with a look on his face of barely restrained rage, "That seems incredible —nobody has seen a dragon in these parts for  _ years _ . Isn't it just a dracolizard? Some of them can be quite  _ big _ ."

Alistair gave Cullen a put upon face, "Don't insult me, Templar, I know what it is. I've  _ seen  _ it. By chance I just came to Holopole for the market and I saw it with my own eyes. My ballad was already prepared, but you didn't want—"

"Carry on. Is it big?" Cullen cut him off with a sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Alistair thought a moment and then said, "It's as long as three horses, to the withers no bigger than a horse, but much fatter. Gray as sand."

"Green, then." Cullen corrected. 

Alistair did not sound sure as he answered Cullen, "Yes? It swooped down without warning on a herd of sheep. The shepherds ran away and it killed a dozen animals and ate four of them before taking flight."

"It  _ flew  _ away." Cullen nodded his head, "That's it?"

"No, it returned the next morning, nearer to the city this time. It dived down onto a group of women who were washing their linen at the edge of the Braa. And  _ did  _ they run, my friend! I have  **never** laughed so much in my life. Then the dragon executed two turns above Holopole before attacking some ewes in a nearby pasture. What a lot of panic and confusion it started! The day before, well, nobody had believed the shepherds... the burgrave then started to mobilise a militia and the guilds, but before he had time to organize them, the people had taken matters into their own hands and sorted it out themselves."

Cullen looked at the bridge, "How?"

"With a very popular method. The master shoe-maker, a certain Kozojed, conceived of a means to finish off the reptile. They killed a sheep then stuffed it full of hellebore, belladonna, hemlock, sulphur and shoemaker's pitch. To be on the safe side, the local pharmacist added two quarts of boil remedy and had the priest of the Temple of Kreve bless the offering. Then they staked the stuffed sheep in the middle of the herd. To tell you the truth, nobody believed that the dragon would be attracted by one stinking piece of shit surrounded by a thousand others.  _ But  _ reality exceeded our expectations. Forsaking the sheep that were alive and bleating, the reptile swallowed the bait along with the stake."

Cullen turned to look back at him, "What then? Tell me more, Alistair ."

"What else can I do? I'm not going to stop  **now** . Listen to the rest: barely enough time had passed for a skilful man to untie the corset of a lady when the dragon started roaring and emitting smoke from both front  _ and  _ behind. Next it did a somersault, tried to fly away and then fell down motionless. Two volunteers approached it to check if it still breathed. They were the local grave-digger and the village idiot, conceived by the lumberjack's daughter, a deranged girl who had been knocked up by a company of pikemen passing through Holopole during the rebellion of the Voivod Tracasse."

Cullen smirked at his old friend, "What lies you speak, Alistair."

"I do not lie; I do nothing but color gray reality. There's a  _ difference _ ."

Cullen shook his head with a scoff, "Not really. Carry on, we're wasting time."

"As I  _ was  _ saying, a grave-digger and a courageous simpleton went as scouts. We then raised for them a nice burial mound, small but pleasing to the eye."

"Ah, good," said Borch meanly. "That means that the dragon still lived."

"And how," replied Alistair  merrily. "it lived, but it was too weak to eat the gravedigger and the idiot; it only sucked their blood. It then flew off... to the great anxiety of all, even though it found it difficult to take off. The dragon crashed with a roar every cubit and a half then took off again. Sometimes it crawled, dragging its hind legs behind it. The more courageous followed it at a distance without losing sight of it. And you know what?"

Cullen snapped, "Speak, Alistair ."

"The dragon plunged into a ravine up in Big Kestrel Mountain, not far from the source of the Braa. It remains hidden in the caves."

"Now it all becomes clear," announced Cullen, "The dragon lived in these caves in a state of lethargy for centuries; I've heard of similar cases. Its treasure must also be there. I know now why soldiers are blocking the bridge. Somebody wants to lay their hands on the treasure and that somebody is called Trian of Caingorn."

" _ Exactly _ ," confirmed the troubadour, "the whole city of Holopole boils for this reason, because the people consider that the dragon's treasure belongs to them. But they fear to oppose to Trian. The king is a young featherbrain who has not yet started to shave, but he knew how to show that it was dangerous to take him on. Trian wants this dragon more than anything. That's why his reaction was so  **prompt** ."

"He wants the treasure, you mean." Cullen guessed. 

" _ I'm _ convinced that the dragon interests him more than the treasure. Because, you see, the principality of Malleore has aroused the appetite of Trian for a long time. After the strange death of the prince, there remained a princess of marriageable age. The powers of Malleore did not see Trian and the other suitors in a good light because they knew that any new power would want to keep a tight rein on them; a situation that a  _ gullible _ , young princess would not know how to deal with. They therefore dug out a dusty old prophecy that assured that the crown and the hand of the girl would belong to the one who conquers a dragon. They believed that this would keep the peace, knowing that no one had seen dragons in the region in such a long time. Trian didn't care about the legend. He tried every possible means to take Malleore by force but when the news of the appearance of the dragon of Holopole reached his ears, he understood that he could consequently conquer the noblemen of Malleore with their own weapon. 

“If he returns to Malleore  _ triumphantly  _ brandishing the head of the dragon, they will welcome him as a monarch sent by the Gods, and the powers that be will not dare say a  **word** . Don't be surprised that he seeks this dragon like a cat stalks a mouse. All the more so as this dragon crawls along with difficulty. For Trian it's a pure godsend, a smile of destiny, damn it."

Cullen grit his teeth, "And it cuts out the competition."

"Well, I guess so. It also cools the ardour of the inhabitants of Holopole. He must have given a pass to all of the horsemen in the vicinity who might be able to strike down the dragon, because Trian is not keen to enter the caves himself, sword in hand, to  _ fight  _ the dragon. In a flash he had the most celebrated dragon slayers gathered around him. You probably know most of them, Cullen ."

Cullen itched along his jaw bone, "It's possible. Who? "

"Eyck of Denesle, for starters."

"Son of a..." The Templar  whistled softly, "The god-fearing and virtuous Eyck: the dauntless knight, beyond reproach, himself."

"You know him then, Cullen?" Borch asked with a twinkle in his eye, "Is he really such a specialist in dragons?"

"Not  _ just  _ dragons; Eyck knows how to deal with all monsters. He's even struck down manticores and griffins. He's also defeated a few dragons, or so I've heard it to be rumored. He's good, but the lunatic ruins business by refusing to take payment. Who else, Alistair?"

"The Crinfrid Reavers."

Cullen nodded his head, "The dragon doesn't stand a chance, even if it recovers its health. Those three are a famous band of experienced hunters. They don't fight within the rules, but their efficiency is  _ without  _ question. They exterminated all the dracolizards and giant centipedes of Redania, killing three red and one black dragon along the way, and that really is something. Is that everyone?"

Alistair shook his head and answered, "No. Six dwarfs also joined them: five bearded men commanded by Yarpen Zigrin."

"I don't know him." Cullen admitted. 

"You've undoubtedly heard about the dragon Ocvista of Mount Quartz."

Cullen clicked his tongue, "I've heard of it. I've even seen stones that came from his treasure; sapphires in incredible shades and diamonds as big as cherries."

"Know that it was Yarpen Zigrin and his dwarfs that slew Ocvista. I also composed a ballad about this adventure but it was quite boring and you lost nothing by not hearing it." Alistair lamented to Cullen with a dramatic sigh. 

"Is that everybody?"

"Yes. Not counting you. You insisted that you knew nothing about the dragon. Who knows, maybe it's true. Anyway, you now know. Now what?"

Cullen gave Alistair a wicked smile, "Now nothing. I'm not interested in the dragon."

"Ah! Very sneaky, Cullen. In any case, you don't have a pass." Alistair said with his own wicked grin on his face. 

Cullen let his grin fall off slowly and instead spoke with a deeper tone to his voice to show that he meant what he said, "I repeat: the dragon  _ doesn't  _ interest me. What about you, Alistair? What brought you to these lands?"

"The usual." The troubadour shrugged, "I have to be near events and stimulating situations. People will talk about this battle with the dragon for a  _ long  _ time. I could, of course, compose a ballad from the tales they'll tell, but it will be better if it's sung by somebody who saw the battle with their own eyes."

"Battle?" asked Three Jackdaws with a raised eyebrow, "It's more of an act reminiscent of an autopsy or the butchery of a pig. The more I listen to you, the more you  **astound** me. A bunch of warriors stumbling over each other to finish off a half-dead dragon that's been poisoned by some yokel, I don't know whether to laugh or puke."

"You're mistaken about the half-dead part," replied Cullen as he looked at Jackdaws, "If the dragon didn't die straight after it swallowed the poison, it means that it will have recovered. It's of no great importance; the Crinfrid Reavers will kill it all the same, but the battle, if you must know, will not be quick."

Jackdaws looked at Cullen with a wicked grin and a shrewd eye, "Your money's on the Reavers then, Cullen?"

"Definitely."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," the artistic guard who had kept silent until then interrupted making all of them look at him, "The dragon is a magical living being that can only be killed by spells. If somebody helps the sorceress who crossed the bridge yesterday—"

"Who?" Cullen 's head tilted to look at him.

"A sorceress," repeated the guard with a huff. "As I said."

"What was her name?"

The guard shook his head slowly"She gave it, but I've forgotten. She had a pass. Young, attractive in her own way, but those eyes... you know the type, lords... they send a shiver down your spine when they look at you. "

"Do you know who it might be, Alistair?" Cullen asked he turned to look at his friend.

"No," replied the bard, grimacing, "Young, attractive and those eyes... it's not much to go on. They all answer nothing but a very sort description. None of these girls who I know—and I know  _ a lot _ —seem to look more than twenty-five, thirty years, but many of them remember the days when Novigrad was still a forest of conifers. But don't women make elixirs of mandrake? That can also make their eyes shine. It's definitely a woman, that's for sure."

"Was the person in question dark haired or did they bear a headdress of horns beset with jewels?" the Templar asked.

"No, sir," answered the lieutenant, "She had horn on her.."

Cullen couldn’t dare hope but he wanted to make sure, "What was the color of her horse? Chestnut with a white star?"

The guard gave him a very unimpressed look, "No, it was as dark as her skin. I'm telling you, lords, it is she who will exterminate the dragon. Dragons are magician's business. Human strength can do nothing against these monsters."

"I'm curious to know what the shoemaker Kozojed thinks about it," said Alistair, laughing lightly, "If he had had something stronger at hand than hellebore and belladonna, the dragon's skin would be drying on a fence, my ballad would already be finished and I would not be drying out in the sun today."

"Why didn't Trian take you with him?" Cullen asked, giving the poet a dirty look quickly. "You stayed in Holopole when he left. Doesn't the king like the company of  _ artists _ ? Why are you here drying out instead of playing for the king?"

"It's because of a young widow," answered Alistair with a despondent air and a pointed look shot right back at Cullen. "Damn it! I romped about with her and when I awoke the following day Trian and the troops had already crossed the river. They even took this Kozojed and the scouts of the militia of Holopole, but had forgotten about me. I tried  _ unsuccessfully  _ to explain it to the lieutenant, but he—"

"If you had a pass, there wouldn't have been a problem," explained the halberdier dispassionately, leaning against the wall of the toll collector's booth. "No pass, no debate. An order is an order."

"Ah!" Three Jackdaws interrupted him sharply and with excitement in his tone. "The girls are back with the beer."

"And not alone," added Alistair  getting up. "Look at that horse. It looks like a dragon."

The Fog Warriors emerged at a gallop from the birch wood flanked by a horseman riding a large nervous stallion, dressed for war.

The Templar also rose. He had seen horses dressed for war, he had ridden a horse dressed for war. He had been carrying a little baby in his arms when his horse, dressed in her war gown, had gently taken them back to Skyhold. The rider wore a purple velvet tunic and a short jacket adorned with sable fur. He looked at them arrogantly from his saddle. Cullen knew this type of look and didn't much care for it.

"Hello, gentlemen. I am Dorregaray," the horseman introduced himself as he dismounted slowly and with dignity. "Master Dorregaray. Magician."

"Master Cullen . Templar."

"Master Alistair . Poet."

"Borch, otherwise Three Jackdaws. The girls opening the barrel are with me. I believe you already know them, Lord Dorregaray."

"Indeed," replied the magician without smiling at the little wink sent his way by the implication given, "The beautiful Fog Warriors and I have already exchanged greetings."

"Oh well! To your health!" Alistair distributed the leather goblets brought by Vea. "Drink with us, sir magician. Lord Borch, can the lieutenant also join us?"

Jackdaws was filling his cup as he replied, "Sure. Join us, good warrior."

"I think" said the magician having taken a small sip in a distinguished fashion, "that you're waiting at the bridge for the same reason that I do."

"If you're thinking of the dragon, Lord Dorregaray," replied Alistair , "that is it exactly. I want to be present at the battle and to compose a ballad. Unfortunately, the lieutenant here, a man some might say is  _ lacking  _ in manners, refused me passage. He demands a pass."

"I beg your pardon." the halberdier clucked his tongue and drank his beer. "I can’t let nobody through without permission. I have no choice in the matter. It seems that all of Holopole prepared wagons to hunt the dragon in the mountain, but I must comply with orders. "

"Your orders, soldier," Dorregaray interrupted, frowning at the man down his nose no less, "concern the unpleasant rabble, the prostitutes likely to spread immorality and riot, thieves, scoundrels and that type. But not  _ me _ ."

"I let  **nobody** through without permission or pass, " retorted the lieutenant pointedly, "I swear on my honor."

"Don't swear," Three Jackdaws interrupted him, rather coldly, "Tea, pour another one for the valiant warrior! Let us sit down, my lords. To drink standing up, quickly and without appreciating the merchandise, is not fitting for the nobility."

They sat down on logs scattered around the keg. The halberdier, newly promoted to noble, became crimson with contentment.

"Drink, brave captain," pressed Three Jackdaws.

"I am only a lieutenant, not a captain," he answered, going red with renewed vigour.

"But you will become a captain, it's obvious." Borch grinned. "Boys as clever as you get promoted in a jiffy."

Dorregaray turned to Cullen, having refused an additional glassful, "In town they're still talking about your basilisk, noble Templar, and you are already taking an interest in the dragon," he said in a low voice, "I'm curious to know if you intend to slay this endangered species for pleasure or for  _ pay _ ."

"Such curiosity is unusual," replied Cullen with a sidelong glance at the man, "when it comes from somebody who flocks double quick to the execution of a dragon to rip out his teeth. Aren't they precious for the making of your  _ medicines  _ and  _ magical elixirs _ ? Is it true, noble magician, that those ripped from still living dragons are the best?"

The man gave him a sneer, "Are you sure that's why I'm here?"

"Yes, I'm sure about that. But somebody has beaten you to it, Dorregaray. One of your female colleagues crossed the bridge armed with the pass that you lack. A sorceress with a horned headdress, if it interests you."

Dorregaray turned a shap look to Cullen, "On a black horse?"

"Yes, apparently."

"Vivienne," said Dorregaray with a worried air.

The Templar  shuddered, unnoticed by anyone.

A silence set in, that the future captain disrupted with a belch: "Nobody... without a pass."

"Would 200 lintars be enough for you?" Cullen offered, retrieving the purse acquired from the fat burgrave.

"Cullen," said Three Jackdaws, smiling in an enigmatic way. " _ Really _ ."

Cullen stood up and said tightly to Jackdaws, "Please accept my apologies, Borch. I'm sorry I can't accompany you to Hengfors. Another time perhaps, if we meet again."

"Nothing is compelling me to go to Hengfors," Three Jackdaws replied carefully. "Nothing at all, Cullen."

"Please put the purse away, sir," threatened the future captain. "It's corruption, pure and simple. Even for 300, I won't let you cross."

"And for 500?" Borch took out his purse. "Put away your silver, Cullen. I take responsibility for payment of the toll. It's starting to  _ amuse  _ me. 500, soldier. 100 per head, considering my girls as a single and beautiful unit. What do you say?"

"Goodness me," the future captain was anxious as he hid Borch's purse inside his tunic. "What shall I tell the king?"

"You should say to him," suggested Dorregaray as he stood up and withdrew an ivory wand from his belt, "that you were scared senseless you when you saw the show."

"What show, sir?"

The magician drew a form with his wand and shouted out a spell. A pine growing next to the river exploded; wild flames consumed it from base to top in an instant.

"To the horses!" Alistair  jumped up nimbly and slung his lute onto his back. "To the horses, gentlemen! And ladies!"

"Raise the barrier," the wealthy lieutenant with a promising career as a captain shouted to the halberdiers still keeping an eye on the toll. On the bridge, behind the barrier, Vea pulled on the reins. Her horse danced, the beat of its hooves resounding on the planks of the bridge. The girl, braids flitting in the wind, gave a piercing cry.

"Right, Vea!" Three Jackdaws replied. "Let's get to it Fog Warriors! Like the wind in an uproar! "

********

"So," declared the oldest of the Reavers, Boholt, imposing and powerful like the trunk of a thousand year old oak, "Apparently Trian did not scatter you to the four winds, noble lords. Though I could have  _ sworn  _ he would have done so. Well in the end, it's not down to us, the  **commoners** , to discuss  _ royal  _ decisions. Come and share the fire. Make a place, lads. Just between us, Templar, tell me the subject of your conversation with the king."

"We spoke of nothing," Cullen replied with ease, leaning comfortably against his saddle positioned near the fire. "He didn't even come out of his tent to meet us. He only sent one of his footmen, what's his name?"

"Gyllenstiern," Yarpen Zigrin told him, a stocky and bearded dwarf whose huge neck, tarry and covered with dust, shone in the light of fire, "A bombastic  _ clown _ . An overfed pig. When we arrived, he put on lofty airs, drivelled on and on, ' _ remember well, dwarves _ ,' he said, ' _ who commands here and to whom you owe obedience. It is Trian Aeducan who commands and his word is law _ ,' and so on. I just listened, all the while wanting to send the boys in to throw him down and trample him into the ground. But I had self-control, you know. They only would have said that dwarves are dangerous, aggressive sons of bitches and that it's impossible for... for... as it's said, for the devil... to coexist or  **something** like that. And there would have been another race riot in a small city. So I just listened politely, nodding my head."

"It seems from what you say that Sir Gyllenstiern doesn't know how to do anything else," Cullen continued with a snort, "because he dressed us down in exactly the same way. Of course, we also deferred to his opinion."

"In my opinion," another Reaver intervened as he deposited a large blanket onto a heap of firewood. "It's a pity that Trian didn't send you away. Everyone is hot on the heels of this dragon, it's incredible. The place is teeming. It's not an  _ expedition  _ any more, it's a  _ funeral procession _ . I don't like to fight in a crowd."

"Calm down, Nischuka," Boholt cut in sharply to his companion, "It's better for us to travel with one another. Haven't you ever hunted a dragon? There's always a whole crowd nearby, a veritable fair, a brothel on wheels. But when the reptile shows itself, you well know who stays put.  _ Us _ . Nobody else." Boholt remained silent for a moment. He drank a good mouthful from a demijohn covered with wicker and sniffed loudly. He then cleared his throat: "All the better, as it so often happens that feasting and butchery begin just after the death of the dragon and before you know it heads are rolling like pears in an orchard. When the treasure is found, the hunters launch themselves at one another's throats. Cullen, am I right? Templar, I'm telling you."

"I know of such cases," confirmed Cullen in a dry tone. He had been caught in more than once such fight if he was being honest. But no one here needed to know that. 

Boholt gave him a long look and then looked down into his drink as he spoke, "You know, so they say. Perhaps from hearsay, because  **I** have never heard of a Templar  _ hunting  _ a dragon. Your presence here is all the stranger."

"That's true," interjected Kennet, nicknamed Ripper, the youngest of the Reavers. "It is strange. And we—"

"Wait, Ripper, I'm the one doing the talking," Boholt interrupted him harshly and with a waved hand at him, "Besides, I don't intend to dwell on the subject. The Templar already knows what I'm getting at.  **I** know it and  **he** also knows it. Our paths have never crossed before and never will again. Imagine, my lads, for example, that I want to disturb the Templar  while he's doing his job or that I try to steal his dues from him. Would he not immediately strike me with his sword, and rightfully so? Am I right?" Nobody confirmed or denied it. Boholt did not seem to be waiting especially for a reply. "Yep," he went on, "It's better to travel with one another, I say. The Templar could prove to be useful. The area is wild and uninhabited. If a chimera, ilyocoris or striga happens upon us, we'll have problems. But if Cullen remains with us, we'll avoid these problems because it's his speciality. But the dragon is not his speciality. Right?" Again, nobody confirmed or denied it. "And Lord Three Jackdaws," Boholt continued, handing the demijohn to the leader of the dwarves, "is a companion of Cullen. This guarantee is enough for me. Whose presence bothers you then, Nischuka and Ripper? Surely not Alistair!"

"Alistair," Yarpen Zigrin intervened, handing the demijohn to the bard, "is always found where something of interest is happening. Everybody knows that he neither helps nor hurts and that he never slows down operations. He's like a tick on a dog's tail. Don't you think so, boys?"

The 'boys', robust dwarfs, burst out laughing, making their beards tremble. Alistair slid his hat back onto his neck and drank from the demijohn, "Damn! This is strong," he groaned, gasping. "It'll make me lose my voice. What's it distilled from? Scorpions?"

"One thing I don't like, Cullen," said Ripper, taking the bottle out of the minstrel's hands once his complaint was out of his mouth and floating about uninterested ears. "Is that this  _ magician  _ is with you. There are already far too many."

"That's true," confirmed Yarpen, "Ripper is right. This Dorregaray is about as useful to us as a saddle on a pig. We already have our own sorceress, the noble Vivienne. Ugh!"

"Yes!" Boholt chimed in, scratching his bullish neck which he had just freed from a leather gorget, bristling with studs. "There are too many magicians hereabouts, my dear fellows, in the heat of the royal tent they conspire, these wily foxes: Trian, the sorceress, the magician and Gyllenstiern. Vivienne is the worst of all. Do you know what they conspire about? How to rip us off, that's for sure!"

"And they stuff themselves with venison!" added Ripper with a despondent air. "And us, what do we eat? Marmots! The marmot, what is it, I ask you? A rat, nothing more than a rat. What do we eat? Rat!"

"That's nothing," Nischuka replied snidely, "Soon we'll dine on dragon's tail. There's nothing like it when it's been braised over coals."

"Vivienne," continued Boholt, "is a totally despicable, vicious woman, a  **shrew** . Nothing like your girls, Lord Borch, who certainly know how to behave and keep quiet. Look, they stayed near the horses to whet their swords. When I passed by them, I greeted them amiably. They smiled at me in return. I like them. They are not like Vivienne who schemes and connives. I'm telling you: we must watch out, because our contract could just be hot air."

Cullen had taken to drinking as the moaned theirs woes about a woman who would be beaten into submission. Cullen had to hold his tongue lest he lose out on being able to speak to her again after so many moons apart, "What kind of contract, Boholt?"

"Yarpen, can the Templar be put in the picture?" Boholt asked his companion after taking another drink to sate his thirst. 

"I don't see a problem with that," answered the dwarf.

"There's no booze left," Ripper interrupted them with a frown and a whine in his voice, turning the empty demijohn upside down.

"Get some more then. You're the youngest. The contract, Cullen, was our idea, because we aren't mercenaries or some  _ other  _ unscrupulous kind. Trian can't just send us into the dragon's clutches and then give us a pittance of gold pieces. The truth is that we don't need to slay the dragon for Trian. On the contrary, he needs us. In this situation, who has the most significant role and who should get the most silver are obvious questions. We therefore proposed a fair deal: those who will personally take part in the battle against the dragon will take half the treasure. Trian will take a quarter by virtue of birth and title. The others, if they contributed in any way to the enterprise, will equally share the last quarter. What do you think of it?"

Cullen let his head sway back and forth in thought for a moment and then asked, "What did Trian think of it?"

"He answered neither yes nor no. It would be in his best interest to cooperate, that greenhorn, because I'm telling you: alone, he will never slay the dragon. Trian remains dependent on professionals, that's to say on  _ us _ , the Reavers, as well as on Yarpen and his boys. It's us, and nobody else, that will come within a sword's length of the dragon. If any others help out, including magicians, they will be able to share a quarter of the treasure."

"Besides the magicians, who do you count amongst these others?" Alistair asked with interest as he played with the feather in his hat.

"Certainly not musicians and authors of trashy verse," Yarpen laughed meanly at him and then answered. "We include those who toil with the axe, not with the lute."

"Ah good!" Three Jackdaws interjected, looking up at the starry sky, "And what did the shoemaker Kozojed and his band toil with?"

Yarpen Zigrin spat into the fire, muttering something in the language of the dwarves.

"The Holopole militia knows these shitty mountains and will be our guide," explained Boholt in a low voice, "It's fair to include them in distribution. As far as the shoemaker's concerned, that's a bit different. When a dragon arrives in a region, it's no good that the people think they can force-feed it poison with impunity then carry on screwing girls in the fields instead of calling professionals. If such a practice carried on, we'd be reduced to begging, wouldn't we?"

"That's true," replied Yarpen with a sigh. "That's why I'm telling you: the shoemaker should be held responsible for that mess rather than be declared a legend."

"He's got it coming," punctuated Nischuka firmly as he spat into the fire with a scowl planted firmly on his lips. "I'll do it. And Alistair, can write a comedic ballad about it, so that his shame and ignominy can live on forever in song."

"You forgot an important element," said Cullen to draw their words away from his friend and back to giving him information, "There is one who can confuse matters by refusing any payment or contract. I'm talking about Eyck of Denesle. Did you talk to him?"

"For what purpose?" Boholt murmured under his breath while stirring the fire with a branch slowly to make sure it didn’t die, "Regarding Eyck, there's nothing to discuss, Cullen. He doesn't know what he's doing."

"We encountered him," Three Jackdaws said with too easy a tone, "On the path leading to your camp. Kneeling on the stones, dressed in his complete armour, he was gazing at the sky."

"He always does that," explained Ripper with a roll of his eyes and a mocking tone, "He meditates or prays. He says it's his  _ divine mission _ to protect humans from evil."

"Back home, in Crinfrid," muttered Boholt as he took the stick out of the fire, "They lock madmen such as him up in the in the back of a cowshed, tie them to a chain and when they give them a piece of coal, they draw marvellous pictures on the walls. But let's cease wasting time by endlessly discussing our fellows: let's talk business."

A young petite woman, with black curly hair now freed from the ornate headdress, though it was now covered with a gold mesh and dressed in a wool coat, silently entered the circle of light.

"What stinks so?" Yarpen Zigrin asked, pretending not to notice her. "Is it sulphur?"

"No." Boholt sniffed ostentatiously looking away "It's musk or some kind of incense."

"No, it's probably..." the dwarf grimaced: "Ah! It's the noble Lady Vivienne! Welcome, welcome!"

The sorceress' gaze slowly took in the gathered individuals. Her shining eyes stopped for one instant on the Templar . Cullen smiled slightly.

"May I sit?"

"But of course, benefactor," replied Boholt, hiccupping. "Take a seat, there near the saddle. Move over, Kennet my friend, and give your seat to the sorceress."

"My Lords, I hear that you're talking business." Vivienne sat down, stretching out in front of her shapely legs sheathed in black stockings. "Without me?"

"We wouldn't  _ dare  _ bother such an important person," replied Yarpen Zigrin with a fake tone of astonished worry.

Vivienne blinked at him as she saw through his words and false mask of humble actions, turning to the dwarf, "You, Yarpen, you would better off being silent. Since the first day we met you've treated me like a bad smell. Now please continue and don't mind me. It doesn't bother me in the least."

"What are you saying, fair lady?" Yarpen smiled not knowing that Vivienne was an old hat at being in a royal court and their deadly game of chicken, and as such she was not fooled for a moment, showing a row of uneven teeth. "Leeches devour me if I do not treat you better than a bad smell. I sometimes pollute the air, but I would never dare to do so in your presence."

The bearded 'boys' burst out laughing. They were immediately silent at the sight of a grey light which had formed around the sorceress.

"Another word out of you and you'll  **be** polluted air, Yarpen," Vivienne shot back at him in a metallic voice, "And a black stain on the grass."

"Very well" Boholt broke the silence which had just descended with a cough, "Be silent, Zigrin. Let us hear what Lady Vivienne wants to tell us. She regrets that our business discussion is taking place without her. I deduce from this that she has a proposal to make to us. Let's listen, my dear fellows, to what this proposal consists of. However, let's hope that she doesn't offer to slay the dragon alone with her spells."

"Why not?" Vivienne reacted with a smirk on her face, raising her head to look at them down the length of her nose. "Do you think it impossible, Boholt?"

Boholt gave her a frown but replied with as much respect as he could muster into his voice, "It is perhaps possible. But for us not very lucrative, because you would then demand half of the dragon's treasure."

"At the very least," the sorceress replied coldly.

"You see that's not a good solution. We, madam, are only poor warriors. If we don't get paid, hunger threatens. We've only been eating sorrel and white goose—"

"After a festival, sometimes marmot," added Yarpen Zigrin in a sad voice.

"—we drink only water." Boholt drank a good draught from the demijohn and snorted. "For us, Lady Vivienne, there's no other solution. We get paid or it's death outside in the icy cold winter. Because the inns are so expensive."

"Beer too," added Nischuka as an afterthought.

"And the whores," continued Ripper, dreamily.

"That's why we're going to try to slay the dragon without your spells and without your help." Boholst said firmly. 

Vivienne gave him a mean smile as she asked, "Are you sure about that? Remember that there are limits as to how to go about it, Boholt."

"There are perhaps. I've never encountered them for my part. No, madam. I repeat:  _ we  _ shall kill the dragon ourselves,  _ without  _ your spells."

"What's more" added Yarpen Zigrin loudly, "spells, too, are subject to certain limits."

"Did you figure this out by yourself?" Vivienne asked slowly like she was talking to a child and not a man grown. "Perhaps somebody else has told you? Does the presence of a Templar at this so noble gathering explain your egotism?"

"No," replied Boholt looking at Cullen, who pretended to be dozing, lazily stretched out on a blanket, his head resting on his saddle. "The Templar has got nothing to do with this. Listen, dear Lady Vivienne. We offered a proposal to the king and he has not honoured us with the answer. We'll wait patiently till morning. If the king accepts, we'll continue on our way together. Otherwise, we shall leave."

"No possible negotiation," Boholt went on. "Take it or leave it. Please repeat these words to Trian, dear Vivienne. And I'll also add that the deal could be favourable to you, to you and also to Dorregaray, if you agree with the king. We don't care about the dragon's carcass. We want only the tail. All rest will be yours. You have only to help yourself. We shall claim neither the teeth nor the brain: nothing of interest to magicians."

"Of course," added Yarpen Zigrin, sneering, "you can also have the carrion. Nobody's going to steal that from you, except perhaps the vultures."

Vivienne  got up, drawing her coat around her shoulders.

"Trian will not wait until the morning," she announced firmly. "He accepts your conditions forthwith. In spite of my advice, as you suspected, and that of Dorregaray."

"Trian," Boholt slowly spoke to her with barely contained spite, "has proved himself of sound judgment for such a young king. Because for me, Lady Vivienne, the wise show an ability to remain deaf to the advice of stupid or hypocritical people."

Yarpen Zigrin sniggered. The sorceress put her hands on her hips and retorted: "You'll be singing another tune tomorrow when the dragon falls upon you, skewers you to the ground and breaks your legs. You'll kiss my arse and beg me to help you. As usual. I know you well, as I know all those of your kind. I know you so you well, it makes me sick."

She turned and walked away into the darkness, without saying goodbye.

"In my time," said Yarpen Zigrin, "magicians remained locked up in their towers. They read learned books and mixed potions in their cauldrons with a spatula without sticking their noses into the affairs of warriors. They minded their own business without flaunting their arses at all the boys."

"And a very pretty arse it is too, to be frank," added Alistair, tuning his lute knowing he could rib Cullen while he had the chance. "Eh, Cullen? Cullen? Where's the Templar gone?"

"What's it to us?" Boholt grumbled, feeding the fire with some more wood. "He left. Perhaps to satisfy the usual needs, my dear lords. That's his business."

"Of course," replied the bard knowing full well where Cullen had stolen away to, playing a chord on his lute. "What would you say to a song?"

"Sing, damn it," Yarpen Zigrin grumbled, spitting once more into the fire, "but don't expect that I'll give you a shilling for your bleating, Alistair. This is not the royal court, my lad."

"That's for sure," replied the troubadour, shaking his head.


	3. The landslide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A landslide is never a good thing

"Vivienne."

She feigned astonishment as she turned around. The Templar knew that she had heard his footsteps from afar. She deposited a wooden bowl on the ground and lifted her head, pushing back a lock of hair which fell across her forehead. Her curly tresses, now freed from the gold mesh, cascaded onto her shoulders.

"Cullen ."

As usual, she wore only two colours - white and black. Her hair and long black eyelashes invited a guess as to the colour of her eyes, which they hid. A black dress, a small black jerkin with a white fur collar. A white shirt of fine linen. Around her neck, on a black velvet ribbon adorned with small diamonds, was a star of obsidian.

Cullen nodded his head at her, "You haven't changed, Vivienne ."

"Neither have you." Her lips tightened in a line, "And in both cases, nothing more normal than that. Or, if you prefer, nothing more  _ abnormal _ . But talking about the effects of time on our appearance, even if it is a very good means to start conversation, is slightly absurd, don't you think?"

Cullen smirked at her harsh tone and her thinned lips of displeasure at him, "That's true."

He raised his head, looking to the side of Trian 's tent at the fires of the royal archers, who were hidden by the dark silhouettes of the wagons. At a fire located farther away, they heard the tuneful voice of Alistair singing Stars Above the Road, one of his most successful romantic ballads.

"Indeed," said the sorceress, "preamble over, what do you have to say? I'm listening."

"You see, Vivienne—"

"I see," she interrupted him wildly and with a snap of her teeth, "but I don't understand. What's the reason for your presence here Cullen? Certainly not the dragon. From that point of view, I imagine nothing has changed."

"No. Nothing changed there."

"Then why did you join us?"

"If I tell you that it's because of you, would you believe me?"

She looked at him in silence. Her bright eyes expressed something unpleasant, "I believe you," she said finally, "Why not? Men like to see their former lovers again to reminisce about the good old times. They take pleasure in imagining that their bygone love affairs assure them a perpetual right of possession on their ex-partners. It's good for their self- esteem. You're no exception, apparently."

"Apparently" he replied, smiling. "You're right, Vivienne. The sight of you has boosted my self-esteem. In other words, I'm happy to see again you."

"Is that all? Oh well, let's say that I'm also happy to see you again. And now we're both contented, I wish you good night. I'm going to bed. Before that, I intend to have a bath and so need to undress. I kindly ask you to go away to grant me a minimum of privacy."

"Viv.” He reached out to her.

"Don't call me that!" she hissed furiously, drawing back away from his reaching hand. Blue and red sparks flew from her fingers which the sorceress aimed at him, "And if you touch me, I'll burn out your eyes, you bastard." The Templar backed off. The sorceress, somewhat composed, pushed back her hair which had fallen across her forehead. She stood before him, resting her hands on her hips, "What were you thinking, Cullen ? That we would talk casually and cheerfully? That we would remember the old times? That after this conversation we would go to lie down in a wagon and make love on the furs... just like that, just to refresh our memories? Is that it?"

Cullen, not sure whether the sorceress knew how to read thoughts or just successfully guessed them, remained silent and smiled crookedly, “I had hoped but knew better than to think it would ever happen again.”

"These past four years did their job, Cullen. I overcame the pain at last. It's only for this reason that I did not spit in your face as soon as I saw you. But don't let my courtesy deceive you."

"Vivienne ..."

"Silence! I gave  **more** to you than I have to any other man, you piece of shit. I didn't know myself why I had chosen you. And you... Oh no, my dear. I'm neither a whore nor an elf met at random on a forest path that you can run out on the following morning without waking, leaving a bunch of violets on the table. A girl you can turn into a laughing stock.  _ Watch out _ ! If you say even one word, you could end up regretting it."

Cullen did not say a word as he sensed Vivienne 's seething anger. The sorceress once again pushed the insubordinate curls from her forehead. She looked him closely in the eye, “I don’t think that an apology would this at all, would it?” 

"We met. Too bad," she continued in a low voice ignoring his question, "We're not going to put on a show for the others. Let's preserve our  _ dignity _ . Let's pretend to be good  _ friends _ . But don't be mistaken, Cullen; between us there is nothing more than that. Nothing more, do you understand? And rejoice because it means that I've abandoned some plans I've been cooking up for you. But it doesn't mean that I  **forgive** you. I shall  _ never  _ forgive you, Templar .  **_Never_ ** ."

She turned wildly, grabbing her bowl so violently that she splashed herself with water, and disappeared behind a wagon. Cullen shooed away a mosquito which flitted around his ear making an irritating noise. He slowly took the path back to the fire where sparse applause expressed approval for Alistair 's singing. He looked at the dark blue sky gaping above the black, jagged crest of the mountains. He wanted to laugh. He didn't know why.

*******

"Watch out there! Pay attention!" shouted Boholt, turning round in the driver's seat towards the rest of the column behind him, "You're too near the rocks! Look out!"

The wagons moved onward behind each other, bouncing along on the stones. The drivers swore and cracked their whips; anxious, they leaned over to check that the wheels remained a respectable distance from the ravine and always in contact with the narrow, uneven path. Down in the bottom of the chasm, the River Braa bubbled with white foam between the rocks. Cullen kept his horse very close to the stony wall covered in patches of brown moss and white blooms of lichen. He allowed the Reavers' wagon to pass. At the head of column, Ripper led the train along with the scouts of Holopole.

"Good!" he called "Make some effort! The way becomes broader."

Trian Aeducan and Gyllenstierna caught up with Cullen on their chargers. Several archers on horseback flanked them. Behind them, all the royal wagons followed, making a deafening noise. Far behind them followed that of the dwarves, driven by Yarpen Zigrin, swearing incessantly. Trian, a thin and freckled lad in a white sheepskin coat, passed the Templar, shooting him an arrogant, but clearly bored look. Gyllenstierna straightened up, stopping his mount.

"If you please, Sir Templar." he shot with an air of superiority and a sneer on his face.

"I'm listening.” Cullen spurred on his mare and rode alongside the chancellor behind the wagons. He was surprised that with such a fat gut, Gyllenstierna preferred riding a horse rather than in the comfort of a wagon. Gyllenstierna pulled lightly on his reins adorned with golden studs and pushed a turquoise coat off his shoulders.

"Yesterday, you said that dragons did not interest you. In what, therefore, are you interested, Sir Templar? Why do you travel this road with us?"

Cullen didn’t spare him a glance as he answered very shortly and sarcastically, "It's a free country, Lord Chancellor."

"At the present time, Lord Cullen, everybody in this convoy must know his place and his role in accordance with the will of Trian Aeducan. Do you understand?"

Cullen had to hold in his eye roll, "What are you getting at, Lord Gyllenstierna?"

"I'm already there. Lately I have heard that it is difficult to come to an agreement with you  _ Templar’s _ . It seems that when somebody asks a Templar to kill a monster, he prefers to meditate on the legitimacy of this act rather than to just take up his sword and kill it. He wishes to consider the boundaries of what is  _ acceptable  _ by wondering whether the killing, in this particular case, does not contradict with his ethical code and if the monster is indeed a monster—as though it were not obvious at first glance. I think that your financial security hinders you: in my time, Templars did not stink of  **money** . The only stench was from the bandages with which they covered their feet. There was never the slightest hint of procrastination: they killed whatever they had been  _ ordered  _ to kill, that's it. It didn't matter whether it was a werewolf, a dragon or a tax collector. Only the effectiveness of the job. What do you think, Cullen?"

Cullen had half a mind to punch him, "Do you want to entrust me with a mission, Gyllenstierna?" replied the Templar roughly, "I await your proposal. We shall make a decision then. But if that's not case, there's no point in waffling on like this, is there?"

"A mission?" the chancellor sighed. "No, I don't have one for you. Today we hunt the dragon and apparently it exceeds your abilities, Templar. I fancy that the Reavers will fulfil this task. I simply wanted to keep you informed. Pay close attention: Trian Aeducan and I will not tolerate this type of fanciful dichotomy consisting of separating monsters into good and bad. We don't want to hear, and even less to  _ see _ , how Templars apply this principle. Do not meddle in royal business, Lord, and cease conspiring with Dorregaray."

Cullen was now seriously considering punching him right in the mouth, "I'm not in the habit of collaborating with magicians. How did you come to such a hypothesis?"

"The fancies of Dorregaray," replied Gyllenstierna, "exceed even those of the Templars. He goes beyond your dualistic dichotomy by considering that all monsters are good!"

Cullen had once heard someone much younger and much more kind hearted say that monsters were good, but like animals, were driven to do bad, "He exaggerates a bit."

"There's no doubt about  _ that _ . But he defends his views with amazing tenacity. Frankly I wouldn't be surprised if he's up to something. It's odd that he's joined this strange company—"

Cullen shrugged his shoulders as he interrupted the man, "I don't really like Dorregaray; the feeling's mutual."

"Don't interrupt me! I must say your presence here seems strange to me: a Templar with more scruples than there are fleas nesting in the coat of a fox; a magician who never stops spouting druidic incongruities regarding the balance of nature; a silent knight, Borch Three-Jackdaws and his escort from Seheron—where, as everybody knows, they make sacrifices before effigies of dragons. And they all suddenly join our hunt. It's strange, don't you find?"

Cullen had meet odder groups than this, "If you say so, yes."

"Know then," the chancellor went on, "that as is so often the case, the most difficult problems always result in the simplest resolution. Do not force me to use to it, Templar."

Cullen raised an eyebrow and turned to look at him, "I don't understand."

"You understand. You understand only too well. Thank you for this conversation, Cullen."

The Templar  halted his mount. Gyllenstierna sped up his pace to join the king behind the wagons. Eyck of Denesle, dressed in a jerkin stitched with pale leather still carrying the impression of a breast-plate, passed by at walking pace leading a sleepy horse loaded with armour and carrying a silver shield and a powerful lance. Cullen waved to him, but the knight errant looked away, pursing his lips, before spurring his horse onwards.

"He doesn't like you very much," said Dorregaray, joining Cullen, "Don't you think?"

Cullen gave a snort, "Apparently."

"He's a rival isn't he? You both lead a similar activity. The difference being that the knight Eyck is an idealist and you a professional. The difference of no importance to the beings whom you slaughter."

Cullen shot him a look, "Don't compare me to Eyck, Dorregaray. Who knows which of us two would come off worse as a result of  _ your  _ comparison."

"As you wish. To tell the truth, to me you are just as loathsome as he is."

Cullen had heard worse insults in his life, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." The magician patted the neck of his horse, frightened by the shouting of Yarpen and his dwarves, "As far as I'm concerned, Templar, to make murder a vocation is disgusting, base and stupid. Our world hangs in the balance. The destruction, the murder of any living being in this world threatens this balance. The absence of equilibrium leads to extinction, and thus the end of the world as we know it."

Oh, he was one of  _ those,  _ "Druid theory," declared Cullen, "I know of it. An old hierophant introduced me to it before, in Ferelden. Two days after our conversation, rat-men tore him to shreds. It wasn't evident that any kind imbalance had occurred as a result."

Dorregaray looked at Cullen indifferently, "The world, I repeat, remains in balance. A  _ natural  _ balance. Every species has its enemies, each is a natural enemy for the others. This fact also applies to human beings. The complete destruction of the natural enemies of man—to which you contribute, Cullen, as we can see—threatens our degenerate race."

The race that could claim that was made to keep quiet about it. Mages and magic users had never been treated like the Elves had been and continue to be, "You know, magician," replied the Templar, losing his temper, "Perhaps you should visit a mother whose son has been devoured by a basilisk and explain to her that she should be delighted with her misfortune, because it will enable the salvation of the degenerate  _ human  _ race. Wait and see how she answers you."

"Good argument, Templar ," interrupted Vivienne, who had joined them on her big black horse, "Dorregaray, be careful about what you say."

"I'm not in the habit of keeping my opinions to myself."

Vivienne  slipped between the two. The Templar  noticed that she had replaced her golden mesh with a white neckerchief rolled into a headband.

"Consider suppressing them, Dorregaray," she replied. "At least in front of Trian and the Reavers, who suspect you of wanting to sabotage the hunt. They will continue treating you as an inoffensive  _ maniac  _ as long as you restrict yourself to words. But if you try to do something, they will break your neck before you have time to take a breath."

The magician smiled contemptuously at her words, “Oh?”

"Besides," continued Vivienne, "by uttering such views, you undermine the foundations of our profession and our duty."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You can apply your theories to grand creation and vermin, Dorregaray, but not to dragons. Dragons remain the worst natural enemy of  _ man _ . It's not a matter of the degeneration of humanity, but its survival. In the end, mankind must get rid of his enemies and anything else that threatens it."

"Dragons are not the enemies of man," interrupted Cullen.

The sorceress looked at him and smiled, only with her lips, "On this issue," she replied, "leave the discussion to us humans. You, Templar, are not made to judge. You are only there to carry out certain tasks."

Cullen snorted, "As a servile and programmed golem?"

"Your words, not mine," she retorted coldly, "even if I consider them, it could be said, rather appropriate."

"Vivienne," said Dorregaray. "For a woman of  _ your  _ age and education to talk such nonsense is shocking. Why would dragons appear among the main enemies of man? Why not other living beings with a hundred times more victims than dragons? Why not hirikkhis, giant centipedes, manticores, amphisbaena or griffons? Why not wolves?"

"Let me tell you. The superiority of man over other breeds and species, the fight for his rightful place in nature, his vital place, will only succeed when man has put an end to his aggressive, nomadic search for food, where he moves about in accordance with the changing of the seasons. Otherwise, it will be impossible for him to multiply quickly enough. Humanity is a child without any real independence. A woman can only give birth safely sheltered by the walls of a city or a fortified town. Fertility, Dorregaray, is what's needed for development, survival and domination. Then we come to dragons: only a dragon can threaten a city or fortified town, no other monster. If dragons are not exterminated, humans will scatter to ensure their security instead of uniting against it. If a dragon breathes fire on a densely populated quarter, it's a catastrophe—a terrible massacre with hundreds of victims. That's why every last dragon must be wiped out."

Dorregaray looked at her with a strange smile on his lips, "You know, Vivienne , I'd prefer not be alive when the time comes that your idea of man's  _ domination  _ will come true and the time when the same will take up their rightful place in nature. Fortunately, it will never arrive. You will consume each other, you will poison yourselves, you will succumb to fever and typhus, because it will be filth and lice, not dragons, that will threaten your splendid cities where the women give birth every year, but where only one newborn baby out of ten will succeed in living more than ten days. Yes,  _ Vivienne _ , of course: breeding, breeding and more breeding. Take care, my dear, go and make some babies, as it's a more natural function with which to occupy yourself rather than wasting time spouting nonsense. Goodbye."

The magician spurred on his horse and left at a gallop to join the head of the column. Seeing Vivienne 's pale and tense face, Cullen instantly felt sorry for the magician. He grasped situation perfectly: Vivienne was sterile, as were most sorceresses, but unlike the others, she suffered as a result and became wild with rage when reminded of it. Dorregaray undoubtedly knew this weakness. He was, however, unaware that Vivienne had a cold-blooded thirst for vengeance.

"He's going to make trouble," she hissed. "Oh, yes! Watch out, Cullen. If it comes to that, don't hope that I'll defend you if you don't exhibit some common sense."

"Don't worry," he replied, smiling. "We Templar s and servile golems always act reasonably. The limitations within which we can act are clearly and distinctly fixed."

"Look at you!" Vivienne 's face turned even paler, "You're as upset as a girl who's just had her lack of virtue exposed. You're a Templar, you can't change that. Your duty—"

Cullen cut her off sharply, "Stop going on about my duty, Viv. This argument is starting to make me sick."

"Don't speak to me like that, I'm warning you. Your nausea as well as your restricted range of actions are of no interest to me."

Cullen sighed, "You'll witness some of them, however, if you don't cease bating me with grand ethics and talk of the struggle for the good of humanity. Or talk about dragons, dreadful enemies of the human tribe. I know better."

"Oh yes?" The sorceress blinked, "What do you know about it, Templar?"

"I know this." Cullen ignored the violent warning of the medallion hanging around his neck, "If dragons didn't protect treasure, not even lame dogs would be interested in their fate. Magicians even less so. It's interesting to note that, in every hunt for a dragon, there is the presence of magicians who are strongly linked to the guild of jewellers. Yourself, for example. Later, while the market is saturated with stones, the ones from the dragon's hoard disappear as if by magic and their price remains constantly inflated. Therefore don't talk to me about duty and battles for survival of the species. I know you too well and for too long."

"Too long," she repeated with a hostile air, grimacing. "Unfortunately. But don't think that you know me well, you son of a bitch. Damn it, what a fool I was—go to hell! I can't look at you anymore."

She cried out, launching her dark horse into a flat-out gallop towards the head of the convoy. The Templar stopped his mount to let through the wagon of the dwarves who shouted, swore and played on bone flutes. Among them, sprawled out on some bags of oats, Alistair strummed his lute.

"Hey!" cried Yarpen Zigrin from the driver's seat, pointing at Vivienne, "What's that black thing on the path? I'm curious, whatever can it be? It resembles a mare!"

"Undoubtedly!" replied Alistair , shouting and pushing back his plum coloured hat, "It's a mare riding a gelding! Incredible!"

The beards of Yarpen's boys shook with a chorus of laughter. Vivienne pretended not to hear them. Cullen stopped his horse to let Trian's archers through. Behind them, a little way off, Borch rode slowly and right behind him, bringing up the rear guard, the Fod Warriors. Cullen waited for them. He positioned his mare next to Borch's horse. They rode on in silence.

"Templar," Three Jackdaws said suddenly. "I'd like to ask you a question."

So many questions today. Cullen nodded his head sharply once, "Ask away."

"Why don't you turn back?"

The Templar looked at him in silence for a while.

"You really want to know?"

"Yes," replied Three Jackdaws, turning to him.

"I walk in the column because I'm only a servile golem, only a strand of oakum carried by the wind on the highway. Where should I go? Tell me. For what purpose? In this company there are plenty of people to talk to. Some don't even cut short their conversations when I approach them. Those that don't like me tell me to my face, rather than talking behind my back. I accompany them for the same reason that I went with you in the bargemen's inn. Because it's all the same to me. I'm not expected to be anywhere in particular. There's nothing for me at the end of the road."

Three Jackdaws cleared his throat, "At the end of every path, there is a goal, a purpose. Everybody has one. Even you, in spite of your difference."

"It is now my turn to ask you a question."

"Go for it."

"Do you see a goal at the end of your path?"

"I see one."

"Lucky you." Cullen said with a sullen tone peppering his voice. 

"It's not a question of luck, Cullen  It's all a matter of what you believe and to what you devote yourself. Nobody can know this better than—what Templar?"

Cullen had risen his hand to stop him in his speech and then looked him right in the eye, "Nobody stops talking about their ambitions today," murmured Cullen, "The ambition of Trian  consists of conquering Malleore. That of Eyck of Denesle to protect the humans from dragons. Dorregaray feels called to accomplish a diametrically opposite purpose. Vivienne cannot fulfil her ambition owing to the changes to which her body has been subjected, and it upsets her. By the devil, only the Reavers and the dwarves seem not to need ambition. They simply want to make a packet. Perhaps  _ that's  _ why they appeal to me. "

"No, Cullen of Rivia, it is not they who appeal to you. I'm neither blind nor deaf. You didn't take out your purse to the soft music of their name. It seems to me that—"

"It's in vain," the Templar said without anger. His home city of Rivia had been burnt down and abandoned long ago. He hated when people called him that instead of Cullen of Ferelden. At least his country of origin was still standing. 

"I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise."

They stopped their mounts to avoid a collision with the archers of Caingorn who had stopped at the head of the column.

"What's happened?" Cullen stood up in his stirrups, "Why have we stopped?"

"I don't know," replied Borch, looking around.

Vea uttered something, looking strangely worried.

"I'm going to the front," declared the Templar,  "I'll find out."

"Wait."

"Why?" Three Jackdaws remained silent, staring at the ground, "Why?" repeated Cullen.

"On second thought, go," Borch said finally, "I think perhaps it will be better to."

"Why will it be better?"

"Go."

The bridge linking up both edges of precipice seemed solid. It had been constructed with imposing logs of pine resting on a square pillar against which the current broke with crash in long rivulets of foam.

"Hey, Ripper!" shouted Boholt, approaching the wagon, "Why have you stopped?"

"I'm not sure about this bridge."

"Why are we going this way?" Gyllenstierna asked, going up to them, "I'm not keen on crossing this bridge with the wagons. Hey! Shoemaker! Why go this way? The track goes on farther westward!"

The  _ heroic poisoner  _ of Holopole went up to him and took off his sheepskin hat. He cut a comical air in his frockcoat covered with an old-fashioned breast-plate dating from at least the time of King Sambuk.

"This way is shorter, noble lord," he replied not to the chancellor but directly to Trian, whose face still expressed deathly boredom.

"How's that?" demanded Gyllenstiern, his face contorted.

Trian did not deign to look at the shoemaker.

"Well," explained Kozojed, indicating the three jagged summits dominating the area, "Over there are Chiava, Big Kestrel and Steed's Tooth. The track leads towards the ruins of an ancient fortified town, winds around Chiava to the north, and carries on beyond the source of the river. By taking the bridge, we can shorten the way. We can follow the ravine up to a body of water located between the mountains. If we find no trace of the dragon there, we can head eastward to examine the adjacent gulches. Even farther eastward, there are flat mountain pastures, than a path leading directly to Caingorn, towards your domains, lord."

Cullen had once heard rumor of an old Elvhen city, a fortress really, long since abandoned and haunted by their ghosts. He had once had a crazy idea in his youth to try and find it in these mountains. Sadly, an Elvhen Queen had called on him in his youth and had given him her most precious treasure. Cullen looked at the bridge. It was a sturdy bridge if only a human and a herd of sheep or goats went across it. It might take longer to go the long way but it might be safer in the end. But Cullen was not going to say anything since everyone didn’t care what he did or what he said. 

"How did this knowledge of mountains come to you, Kozojed?" Boholt asked with a suspicious squint to his eyes, "While planing down clogs?"

"No, lord. I was a shepherd in my youth."

"The bridge will hold?" Boholt got up from his seat and looked down at the foaming river, "The chasm is forty fathoms deep."

"It will hold, my lord."

"How do you explain the presence of such a bridge in this wild land?"

"The trolls," explained Kozojed, "constructed this bridge in ancient times to set up a toll. Whoever wanted to cross had to pay a hefty sum. But there were rarely any takers, so the trolls packed up and left. The bridge remained."

"I repeat," Gyllenstierna interrupted angrily, "that we've wagons filled with equipment and food just in case we get stuck in the wilderness. Isn't it better to stay on the track?"

"We can follow the track," replied the shoemaker, shrugging, "but the road will be longer. The king had expressed his eagerness to battle the dragon. He beamed with impatience."

Cullen knew it and he felt like smacking his own face in rage. Nobles had no common sense and the common people had no idea of much of an enabling presence they were to nobles. Like a tired parent with a spoiled child. He was glad his child had never been spoiled. She was simply too smart. He loved her for that. His smart little girl. 

"Burned with impatience," corrected the chancellor.

"Burned then." the shoemaker acquiesced, "All the same, the road will be shorter if we take the bridge."

"Well, let's go, Kozojed!" decided Boholt, "Forward march, you and your troops. Where I'm from we have a habit of sending the most  _ valiant  _ first."

"No more than one wagon at a time!" Gyllenstierna ordered with a sharp bark behind him at the long line of wagons.

"Agreed!" Boholt whipped his horses: the wagon clattered onto the logs of the bridge, "Look behind us, Ripper! Watch out that our wheels go straight."

Cullen stopped his horse, his way barred by the archers of Trian, their crimson and yellow jerkins huddled together on a stone gable. The Templar 's mare snorted. Then the earth shook. The jagged edge of the rocky walls suddenly blurred against the background of the sky and the wall itself issued a dull, palpable roar.

"Look out!" shouted Boholt, who had already crossed to the other side of the bridge, "Look out!"

The first stones, still small, began rustling and hitting the slope as it shook with spasms. Cullensaw a black fissure forming across the path behind him. It broke and collapsed into space with a deafening crash.

"To the horses!" shouted Gyllenstierna, "My lords! We have to cross quickly!"

Trian, his head leaning on the mane of his mount, rushed onto the bridge followed by Gyllenstierna and some of the archers. Behind them, the royal wagon bearing a standard marked with a griffin crashed with a dull thud onto the faltering beams.

"It's a landslide! Get off the path!" shouted Yarpen Zigrin in the back as he whipped the hindquarters of his horses.

The dwarves' wagon crashed into some of the archers as it overtook Trian 's second wagon.

"Move! Templar! Get out of the way!" someone shouted out. 

Eyck of Denesle, sitting stiff and straight, overtook the dwarves' wagon at a gallop. If it wasn't for his deathly pale face and jaw clenched in grimace, one might think that the knight errant didn't notice the rocks and stones tumbling down onto the track. A wild cry went up from a group of archers who remained behind. Horses neighed. Cullen tugged on the reins, his horse rearing. Just in front of him, the earth trembled under the impact of the rocks that hurtled down the slope. Rumbling over the stones, the dwarves' wagon jolted just before it reached the bridge and overturned with a crack. 

One of its axles broke and a wheel bounced off the balustrade before falling into the turbulence. The Templar's mare, struck by shards of sharp rock, chewed at the bit. Cullen tried to jump from his mount, but his boot remained stuck in the stirrup. He fell. The mare neighed and rushed onto the bridge as it wobbled over the gap. The dwarves ran across shouting and swearing.

"Faster, Cullen!" Alistair shouted over his shoulder as he ran behind the dwarves.

"Jump, Templar!" shouted Dorregaray, jostling around in the saddle and struggling to control his now wild horse.

Behind them, a whole section of path collapsed. A cloud of dust went up, created by the landslide and the crashing of Trian 's wagons as they broke to pieces. The Templar  managed to hang on to the straps of the magician's saddlebags. He heard a scream. Vivienne fell with her horse, then rolled aside. She threw herself to the ground and protected her head with her hands, trying to remain out of reach of the hooves that kicked out blindly. The Templar  let go to rush toward her, avoiding a rain of stones and jumping over the fissures which formed under his feet.

Clutching an injured shoulder, Vivienne rose to her knees. Her eyes were wide and there was a cut above her eyebrow. Blood trickled down to her earlobe.

Cullen called out, "Get up, Viv!"

"Cullen, look out!"

An enormous block of rock, which had broken loose from the wall with a grating noise, came down directly behind them with a thud. Cullen dropped to shield the sorceress with his body. The block exploded and broke into thousands of fragments as fine as wasp stings.

"Hurry!" cried Dorregaray. From his horse, he waved his wand, reducing to dust the other rocks that had come loose from the wall. "To the bridge, Templar!"

Vivienne made a sign with her hand, stretching out her fingers. Nobody understood what she shouted. Stones evaporated like raindrops on white-hot iron upon the bluish arch which had just formed above their heads.

"To the bridge, Cullen!" cried the sorceress. "Follow me!"

They ran behind Dorregaray and some unhorsed archers. The bridge swayed and cracked, beams bending, throwing them from one balustrade to the next.

"Quickly!"

The bridge collapsed all at once with a deafening racket. The half that they had just crossed tore itself apart and fell with a crash into the void, taking with it the dwarves' wagon which smashed onto a row of rocks. They heard the dreadful neighing of the panicked horses. The party that remained on the bridge continued holding on, but Cullen realized that they ran on an increasingly steep slope. Vivienne, breathing heavily, cursed.

Cullen held her close to him as gravity took over, "We're falling, Viv! Hold on!"

The rest of the bridge creaked, split apart and swung down like a drawbridge. Vivienne and Cullen slid, their fingers clutching at the cracks between the log. Realizing that she was gradually losing her grip, the sorceress gave a shriek. Holding on with one hand, Cullen drew his dagger with the other and drove it into a crack before hanging on to it with both hands. The joints of his elbows started to strain as Vivienne held on tightly to his sword belt and scabbard that he wore across his back. The bridge gave way and tilted more and more towards the vertical.

"Viv," groaned the Templar at trying to hold his weight and hers as well on one small point. "Do something... damn it. Cast a spell!"

"How?" she replied in a low, hot-tempered growl, "I'm holding on with both hands!"

Cullen looked down at her over his shoulder and snapped, "Free one of your hands."

"I can't."

"Hey!" shouted Alistair from higher up, "Can you hang on? Hey!" Cullen didn't consider it helpful to reply. "Throw a rope!" demanded Alistair, "Quickly, god damn it!"

The Reavers, the dwarves and Gyllenstierna appeared beside Alistair. Cullen heard the muffled voice of Boholt:

"Wait a minute. She'll fall soon. We'll pull the Templar up afterwards."

Vivienne  hissed like a snake as she clung to Cullen's back. The bandolier bit into the Templar 's torso painfully.

"Viv? Can you get a hold? Can you use your feet?"

"Yes," she groaned. "In theory."

Cullen looked down at the river boiling between the sharp stones against which rolled a few logs from the bridge, the body of a horse and a corpse dressed in the vivid colours of Caingorn. Amongst the rocks, in the emerald, transparent depths, he saw a body of huge trout moving against the flow.

Cullen took a deep breath and spoke as he breathed out, "Can you hold on, Viv?"

"Somewhat... yes..." Vivienne groaned out. Her arms might be getting tired. 

"Pull yourself up. You must get a handhold."

"No... I can't."

"Throw a rope!" shouted Alistair . "Have you all gone mad? They're both going to fall!"

"Wouldn't that be for the best?" murmured Gyllenstierna quietly. Cullen could hear him all the same and how he wanted to gut the man. 

The bridge trembled and tilted even more. Cullen began to lose all feeling in his fingers as he gripped the handle of his dagger.

Cullen could feel sweat on his back pooling at where the spine began to dip, "Viv."

"Shut up... and stop fidgeting."

"Viv?"

She hissed and rammed her head into his back, "Don't call me that."

"Can you hold on?"

"No," she replied coldly. She no longer struggled, she just hung on his back; dead, inert weight.

Cullen had a thought but would never speak it lest it tempt fate, "Viv?"

"Shut up."

Cullen needed to ask this, "Viv. Forgive me."

"No. Never."

Something slid along the beams, very quickly, like a snake. Radiating a cold and pale light, wriggling and writhing as though it were alive, gracefully groping about with its mobile end, the rope found Cullen's neck, wormed its way under his armpits then formed a loose knot. Below Cullen, the sorceress moaned and caught her breath. The Templar  was sure that she was going to burst into tears. He was mistaken.

"Look out!" Alistair shouted above, "We'll hoist you up! Nischuka! Kennet! Pull! Heave-ho!"

The rope jerked and tightened around them painfully, making it hard to breathe. Vivienne  signed heavily. They were pulled up quickly, scraping against the wooden beams.

Above, Vivienne got to her feet first.


	4. Golden Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the dragon.

"Out of the whole fleet," announced Gyllenstiern, "we saved only a baggage wagon, Majesty, not including that of the Reavers. Of the escort, only seven archers have survived. On the other side of precipice, the path has completely disappeared. As far as we can see, to the curve of the cliff, nothing but a pile of rocks and a smooth wall remain. It's not known if all the individuals present on the bridge at the time of its collapse still live."

Trian did not answer. Standing to attention in front of him, Eyck of Denesle fixed him with a fevered gaze, "We are incurring the Wrath of the Gods," said the knight, raising his arms. "We have sinned, Trian Aeducan. It was to be a crusade; a crusade against evil. Because the dragon is evil, yes, every dragon is evil incarnate. Evil is nothing to me: I'll crush it under my foot... destroy it... yes, just as is commanded by the Gods and Holy Scripture."

"Is he delirious?" said Boholt, becoming sullen.

"I don't know," replied Cullen, readjusting his mare's harness. "I didn't understand a thing he said."

"Hush," demanded Alistair with a wave of his hands at Cullen, "I'm trying to memorize his words. They might be able to serve me for my rhymes."

"The Holy Book says," Eyck continued, all in a rage, "that a serpent shall appear from the chasm, a dreadful dragon with seven heads and ten horns. On its hindquarters shall sit a woman dressed in purple and scarlet, a golden chalice in her hands, and on her forehead shall be inscribed the mark of her profound and complete debasement!"

"I knew it!" interrupted Alistair merrily and with far too much happiness coloring his voice, "It's Cilia, the wife of Burgrave Sommerhalder!"

"Keep quiet, sir poet," Gyllenstierna commanded sharply, "And you, Knight of Denesle, speak further, by the grace of the Gods."

"In order to fight evil," continued Eyck with grandiloquence, "it is necessary for oneself to have a pure heart and conscience with head held high! But whom do we see here? Dwarves,  _ pagans  _ who are born in blackness and revere dark powers! Blasphemous magicians, assuming divine right, power and privilege! A Templar; odious mutant an accursed and unnatural creation. Are you therefore surprised that punishment smites us? Let us cease pushing the limits of divine grace! I urge you, O King, that you purge this vermin from our ranks before—"

"Not even a single word about me," Alistair interrupted him, complaining like a child with a whine in his voice, "No word about poets. And yet I tried my best!"

Cullen smiled at Yarpen Zigrin who stroked the sharp edge of the axe that hung on his belt with a slow and steady movement. Amused, the dwarf grinned. Vivienne turned her back on the scene ostentatiously, showing greater concern for her dress which had torn up to the hip than for the words of Eyck.

"We perhaps went a little too far," Dorregaray granted none too gently, "but for noble reasons, Lord Eyck, without a doubt. I consider, however, your comments regarding magicians, dwarves and Templars unseemly, even if we're used to these types of opinions they are neither polite nor worthy of a knight, Lord Eyck. And I will also add: all the less comprehensible as it was you, and no one else, who a short while ago ran up and threw the magical elven rope which saved the Templar and the sorceress from certain death. From what you're now saying, I don't understand why you didn't pray for them to fall instead."

"Bloody hell," murmured Cullen to Alistair without lowering his voice, "It's him who brought the rope? Eyck? Not Dorregaray?"

"No," muttered the bard, "It was definitely Eyck."

Cullen shook his head in disbelief. Vivienne cursed under her breath and straightened up, "Knight Eyck," she said to him with a smile that all, except Cullen, believed kind and benevolent. "Can you explain why? I am vermin after all, but you saved my life?"

"You are a lady, dear Vivienne." The knight bowed stiffly, "Your charming and sincere face makes me think that one day you will break free of your accursed magic."

Boholt snorted.

"I thank you, sir knight," Vivienne replied coldly, "The Templar, Cullen, also thanks you. Thank him, Cullen ."

"The devil take me first," snapped the Templar with absolute sincerity, "Why should I thank him? I'm only a  _ detestable mutant  _ whose vile face brooks no improvement. The Knight Eyck pulled me from the void by accident, only because I was stubbornly held by a lady. If I'd been alone, Eyck wouldn't even have lifted his little finger. Am I mistaken, knight?"

"You are mistaken, Lord Cullen," replied the knight errant serenely, "I never refuse assistance to those that need it. Even a Templar ."

"Thank him, Cullen. And beg his forgiveness," the sorceress told him firmly, "Otherwise, you confirm all that Eyck says about you. You don't know how to live with others because you're different. Your presence in this expedition is a mistake. An absurd purpose brings you here. It would be more reasonable for us to leave. I think that you understand this yourself. If not, it's high time that you did understand it."

"What purpose are you talking about, madam?" Gyllenstierna intervened. The sorceress looked at him without answering. Alistair and Yarpen Zigrin smiled at each other significantly, but so as not to be seen be the sorceress. The Templar fixed his gaze on Vivienne 's eyes. They were cold

"Please excuse me, Knight of Denesle, my  _ sincere  _ thanks to you," Cullen announced, bowing his head, "I also thank all persons present for our hasty rescue. Hanging from the bridge, I heard how all and sundry rushed to our assistance. I beg you all for forgiveness. Except for the noble Vivienne, whom I thank without asking anything in return. Goodbye. This  _ vermin  _ is leaving the company, because this  _ vermin  _ has had enough of you. Take care, Alistair."

"Hey, Cullen," said Boholt stubbornly, "stop acting like a spoiled little girl throwing a tantrum. There's no need to make a mountain out of a molehill. Damn it—"

"My lords!” From out of the gorge ran Kozojed and some of the Holopole militiamen who had been sent out to scout the narrows of the ravine.

"What's happening? What's wrong with him?" asked Nischuka snidely, raising his head.

"My lords... my... dear lords," the shoemaker finally managed, out of breath and red in the face as he tried to speak.

"Stop wheezing, friend," said Gyllenstiern, jamming his thumbs into his gold belt.

The shoemaker took one last deep gasp and pointed as he spoke, "The dragon! Over there, the dragon!"

"Where?"

The shoemaker took a deep breath and answered quickly, "On the other side of the ravine... on the flats... lord... It..."

"To the horses!" commanded Gyllenstiern sharply as he got onto his horse.

"Nischuka!" shouted Boholt savagely to his man, "To the wagon! Ripper, to your horse and follow me!"

"Get to it, boys!" yelled Yarpen Zigrin, with a snap of teeth and a spray of spittle, "Get to it, damn it!"

"Hey! Wait!" Alistair had slung his lute over his shoulder messily and turned to Cullen with a pitiful gaze, "Cullen, take me on your horse!"

Cullen rolled his eyes as he pulled Alistair up onto his horse with a shouted, "Jump on!"

The ravine ended with a scattering of pale rocks spread increasingly further apart, creating an irregular circle. Behind them, the ground sloped slightly before becoming uneven and grassy pasture, enclosed all around by limestone cliffs studded with thousands of holes. Three narrow canyons, ancient beds of dried up mountain streams, overlooked the pasture.

Boholt arrived first and, galloping up to the rocky barrier, stopped his horse suddenly and stood up in his stirrups, "By the plague." he said in breathless awe, "By the yellow plague. This... this... it cannot be!"

"What?" asked Dorregaray, going up to him. Next to him, Vivienne jumped off the Reavers' wagon, pressed her chest up against a large boulder and looked in turn. She stood back, rubbing her eyes.

"What? What is it?" shouted Alistair as they came up to the group, trying to see over Cullen 's shoulder in vain, "What is it Boholt?"

"The dragon... it's gold."

Not more than one hundred paces from the narrowing of the ravine from which they had just emerged, atop a small hillock on the gently sloping path leading to the main northern canyon, sat a creature. Resting its narrow head on a rounded chest, it stretched its long and slender neck in a perfect arch, its tail wound around its outstretched paws.

There was in this creature an ineffable grace, something feline that clearly contradicted its reptilian provenance, for it was, without a doubt, reptilian. The scales it bore gave the appearance of being finely painted on. Furiously brilliant light shone in the dragon's bright yellow eyes. The creature was most certainly gold: from the tips of its claws planted in the earth up to the end of its long tail that moved slowly amongst the thistles proliferating upon the height. The creature opened its big, amber, bat-like wings and remained still, looking at them with its huge golden eyes and demanding that they admire it.

"A golden dragon," murmured Dorregaray flabberghasted by the sight, "It's impossible... a living legend!"

"For crying out loud, golden dragons don't exist," asserted Nischuka, spitting into the water of the ravine, "I know what I'm talking about."

"What, therefore, do you see upon the height?" asked Alistair with a riased eyebrow from the top of Cullens horse snidely.

Nischuka snapped, "It's trickery."

"An illusion." Dorregaray chuckled.

"It is not an illusion," said Vivienne firmly as she smoothed her hair.

"It is a golden dragon," added Gyllenstiern with a huff, "Most certainly a golden dragon."

Nischuka exclaimed in a huff, "Golden dragons exist only in legends!"

"Stop," Boholt intervened with finality at the circular argument, "There's no need to make a fuss. Any fool can see that we're dealing with a golden dragon. What's the difference, my dear lords? Gold, speckled, chartreuse or checked? It's not big. We can deal with it in less than two minutes. Ripper, Nischuka, take the canvas off the wagon, grab the equipment. Gold, not gold; it matters not."

"There is a difference, Boholt." said Ripper hauntingly, "And an important one. It's not the dragon we're hunting. It's not the one who was poisoned near Holopole and who waits for us in his cavern, sleeping peacefully on precious metals and stones. This one is only resting on its arse in the meadow. What's the point of dealing with him?"

"This dragon is gold, Kennet!" shouted Yarpen Zigrin as though he was speaking to an unruly child, "Have you seen its like before? Don't you understand? We'll get a lot more for its skin that what we could pull in for some pitiful treasure."

"And without damaging the market for precious stones.” added Vivienne with an ugly smile painted across her face, "Yarpen is right. The contract remains in effect. There is still something to share, don't you think?"

"Hey! Boholt?" shouted Nischuka from the wagon, noisily grabbing pieces of equipment, “What do we use to protect the horses? Does a gold lizard spit out fire, acid or steam?"

"The devil only knows, my dear lords," replied Boholt, concerned but only slightly, "Hey! Magicians! Do the legends of golden dragons explain how to slay them?"

"How should we kill it? In the usual way, of course." replied Kozojed suddenly, raising his voice. "There's no time to waste. Give me an animal. We shall stuff it with poison then feed it to the lizard. That'll do it."

Dorregaray gave the shoemaker a filthy look. Boholt spat, Alistair looked away grimacing with disgust. Yarpen Zigrin smiled unpleasantly, hands on hips.

"What are you waiting for?" Kozojed asked with a snippy tone, "It is high time we got down to work. We must establish what the decoy will be composed of so that the reptile passes away immediately; we need something horribly noxious, toxic or rotten."

"Ah!" said Dorregaray, still smiling, "What is toxic, filthy and evil-smelling all at once? You mean you don't know, Kozojed? It seems that it's you, you little shit."

"What?"

"Get out of my sight, boot-buggerer, so I don't have to look at you anymore."

"Lord Dorregaray," said Boholt, going up to the magician quickly, "Make yourself useful. Do you remember any legends or tales on the subject at hand? What do you know about golden dragons? "

The magician smiled, standing up again in a dignified fashion.

"What do I know about golden dragons, you ask? Not much, but enough."

"Speak."

"Listen carefully,  _ very  _ carefully: right here in front of us sits a golden dragon. A living legend, perhaps the last and only creature of its type to have survived your murderous folly. Legends should not be killed. I will not allow you to touch this dragon. It that understood? You can put away your equipment and pack up your saddlebags and go home."

Cullen was sure that a fight was going to erupt. He was wrong.

Gyllenstierna broke the silence: "Honourable magician, be careful what you say and to whom you say it. Trian Aeducan can order you, Dorregaray, to pack up your saddlebags and go to hell; note that to suggest the same of him is improper. Is that clear?"

"No." the magician replied proudly to the man, "It isn't, because I am and remain Master Dorregaray. I will not obey the orders of an insignificant king governing a kingdom only visible from the top of a hill and in command an abject, filthy, stinking fortress. Did you know, my Lord Gyllenstiern, that with one wave of my hand I can transform you into cowpat, and your vulgar king into something much worse? Is that clear?"

Gyllenstierna had no time to reply. Boholt approached Dorregaray: he grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. Nischuka and Ripper, silent and grim-faced, stood right behind Boholt.

"Listen well, sir magician," said the huge Reaver quietly. "Listen to me before you wave your hand: I could take the time to tell you, your grace, what I think of your protestations and legends, not to mention your stupid chattering. But I don't feel like it. Content yourself with this following answer:" Boholt cleared his throat, sank a finger into his nostril and snorted onto the magician's shoes. Dorregaray turned pale, but did not move. He had noticed, as had all the others, the morning star that Nischuka held loosely in his hand. He knew, as did all the others, that the necessary time to cast a spell was undoubtedly longer than that which Nischuka needed to shatter his head into a thousand pieces. "Okay," said Boholt with a sniff, "Now kindly step aside, your grace. And if the desire to open your mouth returns, I recommend that you stop up your trap at once with a tuft of grass. Because if I hear your babblings once more, I promise you that you'll regret it." Boholt turned his back on him, rubbing his hands together and barking orders, "Nischuka, Ripper, get to work or the reptile is going to end up eluding us."

"It doesn't seem intent on escape," said Alistair looking around with boyish wonder and jerked his thumb at it, "Look at it". The golden dragon sat on the hillock, yawned, moved its head and wings and struck the earth with its tail.

"Trian Aeducan and ye knights!" a voice like the sounding of a brass clarion suddenly roared, "I am the dragon Villentretenmerth! I see that the landslide that I created, and was rather proud of, did not deter you. So here you are. As you know, there are only three exits to this valley. To the East towards Holopole and to the West towards Caingorn. You can leave by these two roads, but you will not pass by the ravine located to the north, because I,  _ Villentretenmerth _ , forbid it. If anybody does not intend to respect my order, I honourably challenge him, in the form of a knight's duel using only conventional weapons; that is, without magic or bursts of flame. Battle will continue until the surrender of one of the parties. I await your answer through your herald, in accordance with protocol!"

All were dumbfounded. Then again a dragon had just spoken to them so, really, the day had gone from long to horrible and to downright bizarre. 

"It talks!" Boholt murmured, barely able to catch his breath in his excitement, "Incredible!"

"And very intelligently, at that," added Yarpen Zigrin as he crossed his arms, "Does anybody know what a confessional weapon is?"

"Common place, without magic." answered Vivienne, frowning at the stupid question, "Something else surprises me, however. They cannot articulate properly with a forked tongue. This rascal uses telepathy. Watch out because it works in both directions. It knows how to read your thoughts as well as project its own."

"Is it completely mad or what?" declared Kennet alias Ripper, annoyed at the new information given to him, "A duel of honour? With a stupid reptile? It's so small! Let's go at it all together! As a group!"

"No." They looked amongst themselves to see who had given them an answer of denial. Eyck of Denesle, already on his horse, fully equipped, his lance at his stirrup, cut a more impressive figure than when he moved on foot. Fevered eyes shone beneath the raised visor of his helmet. His face was pallid, "No, Lord Kennet," repeated the knight, "over my dead body. I will not allow insult to the honour of knights in my presence. He who dares to violate the code of honour of duelling," Eyck spoke more and more intensely; his impassioned voice broke and trembled with excitement, “who dares to make fun of honour, makes fun of me. His blood or mine will run on this wasted earth. The  _ animal  _ demands a duel? So be it! Let the herald sound my name! Let the Judgment of the Gods decide our fate! The might of fangs and claws for the dragon, his infernal fury, and for me—"

"What a moron," murmured Yarpen Zigrin as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"—for me, law, faith and the tears of the virgins that this lizard—"

"Shut up, Eyck, you're giving us the urge to vomit!" Boholt reprimanded loudly, "Get on with it. Get yourself over to that meadow instead of babbling on!"

"Hey, Boholt! Wait!" the leader of the dwarves intervened, stroking his beard, "You forget the contract? If Eyck strikes down the lizard, he will acquire half..."

"Eyck will acquire nothing at all," replied Boholt, grinning self assuredly, "I know it. If Alistair dedicates a song to him, that will be more than enough for him."

"Silence!" Gyllenstierna ordered harshly, "So shall it be. Faith and honour will rally against the dragon in the form of the knight errant, Eyck of Denesle, fighting in the colours of Caingorn as lance and sword of the Trian Aeducan. Such is the will of the king!"

"You see?" ground out Yarpen Zigrin under his breath, annoyed, "The lance and the sword of Trian. The idiot King of Caingorn has definitely got us. What do we do now?"

"Nothing." Boholt spat on the ground, "You are not going to pick a fight with Eyck, alright? Certainly, he talks crap, but since he's already rashly mounted his horse, it's better to let him go. Let him go, damn it, and let him settle his score with this dragon. Afterwards, we shall see if he is a corpse or not."

"Who holds the office of herald?" Alistair asked out loud as he watched from where he stood near Cullen and his horse, "The dragon wanted a herald. Perhaps me?"

"No. It's not a question of singing some ditty, Alistair," replied Boholt, frowning at the man's lack of knowledge, "Yarpen Zigrin has a booming voice; let him be the herald."

"Agreed, what does it matter?" replied Yarpen with a sigh, "Give me the standard with the coat of arms so that we can do this properly."

"Watch out, lord dwarf, make sure you're polite and respectful." scolded Gyllenstiern.

"Don't tell me what to do." The dwarf thrust out his chest proudly as he stalked toward the edge of the ravine, "I had already conducted my first official engagement while you were still learning how to talk."

Cullen sighed, “This outta be good.” 

The dragon remained sitting on the hillock, waving its tail cheerfully while it waited patiently. The dwarf heaved himself onto the highest rock. He cleared his throat and bellowed: "Hey! You there!" he shouted, putting his hands on his hips, "Scaly shithead! Are you ready to hear what the herald has to say? That's me, in case you were wondering! The knight errant Eyck of Denesle will be the first to take you on, all above board! He will drive his lance into your belly in accordance with sacred custom: which may be unfortunate for you, but it will be joy for the poor virgins and Trian Aeducan! Battle will have to respect the code of honour and law. You will be forbidden to belch fire. You will only be allowed to make mincemeat out of each other in the conventional way. Battle will go on as long as the opposing party has not given up the ghost or snuffed it... and we wish that for you more than anything! Did you get all that, dragon?"

The dragon yawned, shook its wings and swiftly slid down the hillock onto the flat ground, "I heard you, virtuous herald," it replied quickly, "The valorous Eyck of Denesle deigns to come to me on meadow. I am ready! "

"What mugs!" Boholt spat, casting a gloomy look towards the knight Eyck as he trotted out to the barrier of rocks. "It's a bloody farce..."

"Shut it, Boholt," shouted Alistair, rubbing his hands together and tugging on Cullens pants, "Look, Eyck is going to charge! Bloody hell, what a fine ballad I'm going to compose!"

Cullen rolled his eyes. 

"Hurrah! Three cheers for Eyck!" one of the archers of Trian exclaimed.

"I," Kozojed interjected sadly but with no true emotion behind it, "would have made him gulp down some sulphur, just to be on the safe side."

On the battleground, Eyck returned salute to the dragon by raising his lance. He slammed down the visor of his helmet before driving his spurs into the sides of his mount.

"Well, well, well." the dwarf responded with a chuckle, "He might be a fool, but he really knows what he's doing. Look at him!"

Leaning forward, straining in the saddle, Eyck lowered his lance when he was at a gallop. In spite of Cullen 's assumption, the dragon did not leap back. Neither did it try to elude its adversary by going around him, but launched itself flat out towards the knight who attacked it.

"Kill it! Kill it, Eyck!" shouted Yarpen.

Eyck did not throw himself blindly into a frontal attack. In spite of going full tilt, he skilfully changed direction at the last minute, shifting his lance over his horse's head. Flying alongside the dragon, he struck with all his might, standing up in his stirrups. Everybody started to shout in unison, except Cullen who refused to participate in the chorus. The dragon evaded the thrust with an elegant circular movement, agile and full of grace. With a whip-like motion, it pivoted and, in a combination of feline exuberance and nonchalance, disembowelled the horse with its paw. The horse reared high and let out a grunt. 

The knight, badly shaken, did not drop his lance, however. As the horse collapsed to the ground, the dragon swept Eyck from his saddle with one strike of its mighty paw. He was shot into the air, the plate of his armour grating against itself. Everybody heard the crash and clatter of his fall onto the ground. The dragon crushed the horse with its foot, sat down and plunged in with its toothy maw. The horse bellowed with terror before dying in a last spasm.

All heard the deep voice of the dragon Villentretenmerth in the silence that had fallen, "The valorous Eyck of Denesle may be withdrawn from the ground. He is unfit to continue battle. Next, please."

"Oh Shit!" said Yarpen Zigrin in the quiet.

"Both legs are broken," said Vivienne, drying her hands on a linen cloth from where she had cleaned them in the ravine, "and undoubtedly part of his backbone. His armour is split in the back as though it's been rammed. His legs were shredded by his own lance. He's not ready to get back up on a horse any time soon, supposing that he gets back up at all."

"Occupational hazard," murmured Cullen with a mean smirk on his face.

The sorceress frowned, "Is that all you have to say?"

"What else do you want to hear, Vivienne?" Cullen wondered. 

"This dragon is incredibly quick, too quick to be struck down by a human."

"I understand.” Cullen said with a chuckle and then shook his head, “No, Viv. Not me."

"Is it because of your principles?" the sorceress smiled maliciously at him as he sat on his horse, "Or perhaps it's just plain, ordinary  _ fear _ . It would be the only human emotion you're capable of feeling."

"Both," replied the Templar dispassionately just to anger her as he knew it would, "What difference does it make?"

"Exactly." Vivienne approached him with her arms crossed and stride sure, "None at all. Principles can be overridden; fear can be  _ conquered _ . Kill this dragon, Cullen. Do it for me."

"For you?"

"For me. I want this dragon. All of it. I want it for myself."

Cullen gave a snort, "Use your spells and kill it yourself."

"No. You kill it. With my spells, I shall immobilize the Reavers and the others so that they don't interrupt you."

"There will be deaths, Vivienne." Cullen cautioned her. 

"Since when does that bother you? You'll be in charge of the dragon. I'll take care of the others." she said with a smile showing off too many teeth. 

"Vivienne ," the Templar replied coldly and with narrowed eyes, "I'm having trouble understanding. Why do you need this dragon? Does the yellow colour of its scales please you that much?  _ Poverty  _ threatens you not at all; your means are numerous, you are famous. So what is it? Just don't say anything about duty, I beg you."

Vivienne remained silent. Then, frowning, she kicked a pebble lying in the grass, "There's somebody who can help me. Apparently it... you know what I'm talking about... Apparently it's reversible. There is a chance. I can still have... Do you understand?"

"I understand."

Vivienne wouldn’t look him in the eyes, "It is a complicated and costly operation. But in exchange for a golden dragon... Cullen?" The Templar  remained silent. "When we were hanging from the bridge," she continued on as though he had spoken, "you asked me for something. I grant it to you, in spite of everything."

The Templar  smiled sadly and dismounted his horse. He touched the star of obsidian which hung on Vivienne 's neck with his index finger, "It's too late, Viv. We're no longer hanging from the bridge. I don't care anymore. In spite of everything."

He expected the worst: a cascade of flames, flashes of lightning, blows raining down on his face, insults and curses. There was nothing. He saw, with astonishment, only the subtle trembling of her lips. Vivienne turned around slowly. Cullen regretted his words. He regretted the emotion from which they had originated. The last possible limit, like the strings of a lute, had been broken. 

He glanced at Alistair and saw that the troubadour quickly turned away to avoid his gaze. Cullen understood what she wanted but he had it. A little girl was waiting for him to come home and tell her the story of him. She was waiting for him to come home. He didn’t have to dream about a family, he had what he wanted. 

"Questions of honour and chivalry don't seem to apply any more, my dear Lord," announced Boholt, already equipped with the armour of Trian, as he sat motionless on a stone with an expression of worry on his face, "The honour of the knights is lying over there, moaning quietly. It was a very bad idea, Sire Gyllenstiern, to send Eyck into battle as the knight and vassal of your king. I wouldn't dare to point a finger at the culprit, but I definitely know to whom Eyck owes a pair of broken pins. It is true, however, that we've killed two birds with one stone: we've got rid of a madman who wanted to relive the knights' legends by single- handedly defeating a dragon and a smart aleck who intended to get rich quick thanks to first. Do you know who I'm talking about, Gyllenstiern? Yes? Good. Now, it's our turn. This dragon belongs to us. It is to us, the Reavers, that it falls to kill the dragon. But for our own benefit."

"And our contract, Boholt?" the chancellor shot back at him, "What about our contract?"

"I don't give a shit."

"This is outrageous! It's contempt of court!" Gyllenstierna stamped his foot and was red in the face, "Trian Aeducan—"

"What about the king?" replied an irate Boholt, leaning on a colossal longsword, "Perhaps the king  _ personally  _ wants to pit his strength against the dragon? Or maybe you, his faithful chancellor? You would need to shield your big fat belly with armour before going into battle! Why not? You're welcome to try. We'll wait, your grace. You had your chance, Gyllenstiern, when Eyck tried to run the dragon through with his lance. You would have taken everything for yourself, and we would have received nothing—not a single scale from its back. Now, it's too late.  _ Open your eyes _ . Nobody else is likely to fight in the colours of Caingorn. You won't find another fool such as Eyck."

"That's not true!" The shoemaker Kozojed threw himself to the king's feet, who always seemed to be staring at an invisible point on the horizon, "Lord King! Wait just a little while until our Holopole chaps put in an appearance. It'll be well worth the wait. Damn that lot's stuck up arrogance. Look to the brave men who you can rely on, not to these blowhards!"

"Shut up!" Boholt calmly ordered, brushing a trace of rust from his breast-plate, “Shut your mouth,  **peasant** , otherwise I'll shut it for you by making you choke on your teeth."

Kozojed, seeing the approaching Kennet and Nischuka, retreated quickly and blended in with the group of the scouts from Holopole.

"Sire," asked Gyllenstiern with a pleading tone, "Sire, what do you order?"

The bored expression immediately disappeared from Trian 's face. The young monarch scowled, wrinkled his freckled nose and got up, "What do I order?" he said slowly and coldly to the older man, "Finally you ask me, Gyllenstiern, instead of deciding for me and in my own name. I'm  _ delighted _ . Let's keep it like that, Gyllenstiern. From now on, I want you silent and obedient. This, therefore, is the first of my orders. Gather all the people. Order them to place Eyck of Denesle on a wagon. We return to Caingorn."

"Lord..."

"Not a word, Gyllenstiern. Lady Vivienne, noble lords, I take my leave of you. I wasted a fair amount of time carrying out this expedition, but the benefits which I take away from it are  _ incommensurable _ . I learnt a lot. Thanks to you and your words, Lady Vivienne, Lord Dorregaray, Lord Boholt. And thanks to your silence, Lord Cullen."

"Sire," said Gyllenstiern desperately, "why? The dragon is right there, at your mercy. Sire, what happened to your ambition?"

" _ My ambition? _ " repeated Trian, lost in his thoughts, "I don't have it any more. And if I stay here, I risk losing it forever."

"And Malleore? And the hand of the princess?" The chancellor had not given up; he continued, wringing his hands, "And the throne, Sire? The people consider that—"

"Screw the people of Malleore, to use the expression of Mr Boholt," replied Trian sharply, "The throne of Malleore belongs to me in any case: three hundred cavalry make my reign law in Caingorn and I have one thousand five hundred infantrymen against their measly thousand shields. They will have to acknowledge my legitimacy. As long as I hang, slay and cleave my way through the roads of Malleore, they will  _ have  _ to acknowledge my legitimacy. As for their princess, that fatted calf, I shall reject her hand. I need only her belly round to make me heirs and nothing more. Afterwards, I shall get rid of her. With the old fashioned method of Master Kozojed. We've spoken enough, Gyllenstiern. It's time to carry out my orders."

"Indeed," murmured Alistair to Cullen, "He did learn a lot."

"Yes, a lot," confirmed the Templar, looking at the hillock where the golden dragon, lowering its triangular head, licked something that sat in the grass beside it with its scarlet, forked tongue, "But I wouldn't like to be one of his subjects, Alistair ."

"What's going to happen now, do you think?"

The Templar gazed at a tiny green-grey creature that leaned against the golden dragon's paw, flapping its bat-like wings.

"And you, Alistair, what do you have to say about it?"

"What does it matter what I think? I'm a poet, Cullen. Has my opinion the slightest importance?"

Cullen smiled, "Certainly."

"In that case, I'll tell you, Cullen. When I see a reptile, a snake for instance, or a lizard, it disgusts me and scares me, they're  **horrible** ... While this dragon..."

"Yes?"

"It's... it's beautiful, Cullen."

"Thank you, Alistair ."

"What for?"

Cullen turned around and, with a slow movement, tightened the buckle on the bandolier across his chest by two holes. He raised his right hand to check that the hilt of his sword was well positioned. The poet looked at him wide-eyed.

"Cullen , you're going to..."

"Yes," replied the Templar, calmly, "There is a limit as to what is possible. I've had enough of all this. What are you going to do, Alistair ? Will you stay or will you follow Trian 's troops?"

The troubadour bent to carefully put his lute down against a stone, then straightened up, "I'll stay. What are you talking about? Limits of the possible? I reserve the right to use this expression as the title of my ballad."

"It might be your last ballad."

"Cullen ."

"Yes?"

"Don't kill it... if you can."

"A sword is a sword, Alistair . When it's drawn..."

"Try."

"I shall try."

Dorregaray sneered, turning towards Vivienne and the Reavers he pointed to the royal standard as it moved away, "There," he said, "goes Trian Aeducan. He no longer gives orders by the mouth of Gyllenstiernaas he has finally gained some common sense. It's a good thing that you're with us, Alistair . I propose that you begin composing your ballad."

"About what?"

The magician produced his wand from inside his sable coat.

"How Master Dorregaray, wizard by trade, succeeded in driving away a bunch of brigands eager to exterminate the last living golden dragon. Don't move Boholt! Yarpen, take your hand away from your axe! Vivienne, don't even think about moving a finger! Go, you wretched  _ curs _ , I suggest that you follow the king like a pack of hounds traipsing after their master. Take your horses and your wagons. I warn you: the slightest wrong movement, and there will remain of the perpetrator only a smell of burning and an empty space on the sand. I'm not joking."

"Dorregaray," Vivienne hissed.

"Dear magician," said Boholt in a reasonable voice, “either we come to an agreement—"

"Be silent, Boholt. I repeat:  _ do not _ touch this dragon. Take your business elsewhere and good riddance."

Vivienne's hand suddenly shot forward and the ground around Dorregaray exploded in a flash of azure fire, whirling about in cloud of gravel and ripped up clods. The magician staggered, surrounded by flames. Nischuka took advantage of this to leap up and punch him in the face. Dorregaray fell to the ground, his wand firing off a flash of red lightning that struck harmlessly amongst the rocks. Ripper, suddenly appearing at his side, kicked the unfortunate magician. He had already pivoted to repeat this gesture when the Templar fell between them. He pushed Ripper back, drawing his sword and striking horizontally at the space between his pauldron and cuirass.

Boholt blocked the blow with his longsword. Alistair tried to trip up Nischuka, but to no avail: Nischuka took hold of the bard's rainbow tunic and punched him between eyes. Yarpen Zigrin, springing up behind Alistair, buckled his legs by hitting him in the back of his knees with the handle of his axe. Cullen dodged Boholt's sword with a pirouette and struck Ripper at close quarters as he tried to evade him, tearing his iron armband from his arm. Ripper retreated backwards with a jump, tripped over and fell to the ground. Boholt grunted, wielding his sword like a scythe. Cullen jumped over the hissing blade and rammed Boholt's cuirass with the hilt of his sword, pulled back then aimed for Boholt's cheek. 

Boholt, seeing that he could not parry blow, threw himself backwards and fell onto his back. In one leap, the Templar had already joined him. At this instant, Cullen felt the earth give way and his feet falter. The horizon became vertical. Trying in vain to draw the Sign of Protection with his hand, he fell heavily onto his side, letting his sword slip free from his paralysed hand. He heard his pulse knocking in his ears and a continuous hiss.

"Bind them while the spell still lasts," shouted Vivienne from behind him, from further away upon the height, "All three!"

Dorregaray and Cullen, stunned and powerless, allowed themselves to be bound and tied to the wagon wordlessly and without resistance. Alistair cursed and put up a fight and as a result was trussed up after first having received a few blows.

"What's the point in taking these sons of bitches prisoner?" Kozojed interrupted, approaching the group, "It's better to kill these traitors right away and be done with it."

"You're a son of the same bitch," Yarpen Zigrin replied as he spit at his feet, "Though saying that's an insult to dogs. Get lost, parasite!"

"Such recklessness!" shouted Kozojed with a smirk on his face, “We shall certainly see if you'll be as arrogant when my men arrive from Holopole. In their opinion, you—"

Yarpen, with an uncommon agility for his stature, effortlessly pivoted and struck him in the head with the handle of his axe. Nischuka, coming alongside, finished the job with a kick which sent Kozojed to graze on the grass some distance away.

"You'll regret this!" shouted the shoemaker, on all fours. "All of you—"

"Get him, lads!" roared Yarpen Zigrin with a snap of his teeth, "That filthy-faced son of a whore cobbler! Come on, Nischuka!"

Kozojed didn't hang about. He jumped up and took off at a run towards the eastern canyon. The Reavers of Holopole chased after him. The dwarves threw stones at him, laughing.

"Already the air's got a lot fresher," laughed Yarpen meanly, "Okay, Boholt, let's go and get the dragon!"

"Wait a minute." Vivienne raised her arm and pointed her hand right at him as she spoke, "The only thing you're going to be hitting is the road. You can go back that way: now be off with you. Every single one of you."

"What?" Boholt flinched, his eyes flashed malevolently, "What are you talking about, dear lady sorceress?"

"Get out! Be gone! Go and find the shoemaker," repeated Vivienne a ladylike sniff, upturning her nose and waved her hand at him, "Every last one of you. I'm going to take on the dragon myself. With non-conventional weapons. Thank me before leaving. Without me, you would have had a taste of the  _ Templar 's  _ sword. Go quickly, Boholt, before I get annoyed. I'm warning you: I know a spell which could transform you into geldings. I have only to wave my hand."

"Good grief," exclaimed Boholt as he threw up his hands, "My patience has reached its limit. I won't be made to look a fool. Ripper, remove the wagon's tongue. It seems to me that I also need a non-conventional weapon. Somebody's going to suffer, my dear lords. I'm not pointing a finger. I shall simply say that it's a certain despicable sorceress."

Vivienne gave him a sneer, "Try it, Boholt. It would make my day."

"Vivienne," asked the dwarf, reproachfully, "Why?"

"Perhaps it's because I don't like to share, Yarpen." she said sharply. 

"Oh well," the dwarf smiled, "you're only human. So human that it's even worthy of a dwarf. It's nice to find one's own qualities in a sorceress. I don't like to share either, Vivienne."

He bent over in a movement as short and quick as a flash of lightning. A metal ball, produced from who knows where, flew through the air and struck Vivienne's forehead violently. Before the sorceress came to, Ripper and Nischuka immobilized her arms and Yarpen has bound her ankles with a rope. The sorceress howled with anger. One of Yarpen's boys, holding her from behind, threw a bridle over her head and pulled it tight, stifling her shouts by shoving the straps into her open mouth.

"What now, Vivienne?" shot Boholt, walking towards her, "How are you going to transform me into a gelding without being able to move your hands?" He tore the neck of her tunic then ripped her shirt open. Trapped in the bridles, Vivienne hurled abuse at him in the form of stifled shouting. "We have no time at present," said Boholt, groping her while ignoring the sniggering of the dwarves, "but wait just a little while, sorceress. When we've taken care of the dragon, we'll be able to have some fun. Tie her firmly to the wheel, lads. Both hands tied, so that she can't move a finger. And none of you boys dare to interfere with her, damn it. He who stands strongest against the dragon will have first place in the queue."

"Boholt," said Cullen quietly and ominously, making all of them turn their heads to look at him and his fierce golden eyes, "Watch out. I will hunt you to the ends of the earth."

"You surprise me," replied the Reaver, also quietly, "If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut because, knowing your abilities, I'm likely take your threat seriously. You leave me no choice. I can't let you live, Templar. But we'll deal with you later. Nischuka, Ripper, to the horses."

"That's just your luck," Alistair wailed at them as he wiped the blood from his nose and rose to his feet, "Damn it, it's me who got you into this mess."

Dorregaray lowered his head and watched thick drops of his blood run slowly from his nose onto his belly. 

"Stop staring at me this instant!" the sorceress shouted at Cullen. She writhed like a snake in her bonds in a vain attempt to conceal her naked charms. Cullen obediently diverted his eyes. Alistair didn't.

"According to what I see," mocked the bard, "you must have used a whole barrel of mandrake elixir, Vivienne. Your skin resembles that of a sixteen-year-old girl. It's giving me goosebumps."

"Shut up, you son of a whore!" the sorceress replied as best she could through her gag. . 

Alistair  didn't relent, "How old are you really? Two hundred years? Rather a hundred and fifty, say. And you act like—"

Vivienne stretched her neck to spit at him. It missed its target.

"Viv," muttered the Templar sadly, wiping his saliva spattered ear with his shoulder.

"Make him stop ogling me!"

"I have no intention of doing so," declared Alistair smugly, continuing to admire the pleasant view of the half-naked sorceress, "It's because of her that we're prisoners. They'll cut our throats. At the very least, they're going to rape her. At her age—"

"Shut up, Alistair  ," ordered the Templar with a snap at his friend.

Alistair chuckle, "Not on your life. I have a burning desire to compose a ballad about a pair of tits. Please don't interrupt me."

"Alistair," Dorregaray spat out some blood, "be serious."

"I'm very serious, damn it." he said as he wiped the last of the blood from his face. 

Boholt, helped up by a dwarf, clambered onto his saddle with difficulty due to the heavy leather armour he was decked out in. Nischuka and Ripper were already waiting on their mounts, huge longswords at their sides.

"Good." muttered Boholt. "Now to the dragon."

"No," a deep voice answered, the sonority of which was reminiscent of a brass horn, "It is I who will come to you!" A long bright gold muzzle appeared behind the circle of rocks, followed by an elongated neck protected by a row of spines then long-clawed paws. Menacing reptilian eyes with vertical pupils observed the scene from on high. "I couldn't wait on the battleground any longer," explained the dragon Villentretenmerth, looking around at them. "I therefore took the liberty of coming to join you. I see that the adversaries eager to fight me are growing fewer and fewer."

Boholt grabbed his reins between his teeth and his sword in his two fists.

"Thatsh gahd," he mumbled indistinctly, biting on the reins, "Ah hahp dat yer're reddy fer combat, monshter!"

"I am ready," replied the dragon, bowing its back into an arch and wafting its tail in the air as a sign of provocation.

Boholt checked what was going on around him. Nischuka and Ripper surrounded the animal slowly, with deliberate calmness, on either side. Yarpen Zigrin and the boys waited behind them, armed with axes.

"Aaargh!" bellowed Boholt, spurring his horse on wildly and brandishing his sword. The dragon pivoted, rising up and letting itself fall back to the earth; like a scorpion with its tail above its haunches, it struck downward, mowing down not Boholt, but Nischuka who attacked laterally. Nischuka fell with a crash, his horse neighing and screaming. Boholt, approaching at a gallop, attacked with a mighty blow from his sword, the broad blade of which the dragon skilfully avoided. The momentum of the gallop took Boholt on past the dragon. It twisted and, standing on its hind legs, hit Ripper with its claws, disembowelling the horse and goring its rider's thigh with a single swipe. Boholt, leaning in the saddle, managed to gain control of his mount and, still gripping the reins between his teeth, charged again.

Whipping the air with its tail, the dragon swept aside all of the dwarves as they came running up to it. Then it launched itself at Boholt, vigorously crushing Ripper in its passage as he tried to get up again. Boholt, turning his head, tried an evasive manoeuvre but the dragon was much quicker and more agile. Shrewdly intercepting Boholt from the left, cutting off his route, it hit him with its clawed foot. The horse reared and fell onto its side. Boholt flew from the saddle, losing both sword and helmet, and fell backwards before bashing his head on a boulder.

"Run, boys! Into the mountains!" yelled Yarpen Zigrin with a shout which drowned out the howling Nischuka, still crushed by his horse.

Beards blowing in the wind, the dwarves ran towards the rocks at an amazing speed for their short legs. The dragon did not pursue them. He sat quietly and looked around. Nischuka thrashed and yelled under the weight of his horse. Boholt was lying motionless. Ripper limped back to the shelter of the rocks, walking sideways like a crab.

"It's incredible," murmured Dorregaray. "Incredible."

"Hey!" Alistair pulled so hard on his bonds, the wagon shook. "What's that? There! Look!"

They saw a big cloud of dust on the side of the eastern ravine, soon followed by a tumult of shouting, rattle and clatter. The dragon raised its head to look. Three big wagons carrying armed men came out onto the plain. They scattered to encircle the dragon.

"Bloody hell! It's the militia and guilds of Holopole! " cried Alistair in a mix of joy and fear, at the small army coming toward them "They succeeded in by- passing the river Braa! Yes, it's them! Look, there's Kozojed at the head!"

The dragon lowered its head to gently push the small, greyish, chirping creature towards the wagon. It then struck the ground with its tail, roaring loudly, before launching itself like a speeding arrow to meet the inhabitants of Holopole.

"What's that small thing moving in the grass over there, Cullen?" Vivienne  asked knowing he had the best eyes of them all.

"It's what the dragon protected," replied the Templar, thinking of how he often pushed her behind his legs when he was home, ready to snap anyone in half that tried to hurt her. "It was just recently hatched in a cavern in the northern ravine. It's the offspring of the female dragon poisoned by Kozojed."

The baby reptile, stumbling and hugging the ground with its rounded belly, came up to the wagon with a halting step. It chirped, stood on its hind legs and unfurled its wings. It suddenly went to snuggle up against the sorceress. Vivienne sighed deeply, looking puzzled.

"He likes you," murmured Cullen with a smile.

"He may be young, but he's no idiot," added Alistair, fidgeting enthusiastically in spite of his bonds. "Look where he lays his little head. I'd like to be in his place, damn it. Hey! Little one! You should run away. This is Vivienne, the bane of dragons! And Templar s! At least of one Templar  in particular—"

"Shut up, Alistair ," shouted Dorregaray at man who made his living on speaking non stop, "Look at what's happening on the ground over there! They're going to catch it! Plague upon on all of them!" The wagons of the inhabitants of Holopole, rumbling like chariots, rushed at the attacking dragon.

"Hack it to pieces," shouted Kozojed hanging on the driver's shoulders, "Hack it to pieces until it's dead, my friends! Don't hold back!"

In a single leap, the dragon evaded the first wagon, but found itself trapped between the two following, from whence a big double fisherman's net, tied with ropes, was thrown over him. The entangled dragon fell, struggling, then curled into a ball before lashing out its legs. The net ripped sharply, torn to pieces. The first wagon, which had now managed to turn around, threw another net, immobilizing it completely. The other two wagons made a u-turn and charged the dragon once again, rattling and bouncing over the potholes in the ground.

The dragon roared, fire billowing out into the sky with clouds of smoke. The Holopole militiamen jumped down from their wagons and rushed towards it. The dragon roared once again, a desperate, resounding call. An answer came up from the northern canyon in the form of a piercing war cry. At a full on gallop, their blonde braids flitting in the wind and blades flashing, there suddenly appeared from the ravine. 

"The Fog Warriors!" cried the Templar, struggling to free himself from his bonds.

"Oh, shit!" exclaimed Alistair following Cullens lead on his bonds. "Cullen, do you know what this means?"

The Fog Warriors cut through the mass of militiamen like a hot knife in through butter, leaving in their wake heaps of slashed bodies. They dismounted from their horses before running flat out towards the imprisoned dragon. A militiaman tried to intervene. His head rolled from his shoulders. Another one tried to stab Vea with a pitchfork, but the Fog Warrior, holding her sword with both hands, disembowelled him from his perineum up to his sternum. The others took to their heels.

"To the wagons," shouted Kozojed fearfully, "To the wagons, my friends! We shall crush them with the wagons."

"Cullen !" Vivienne shouted suddenly. Stretching her trussed up legs, she managed to move them under the wagon, very close to the Templar 's hands which were tied behind his back. "The Sign of Igni! Burn my bonds! Can you feel the rope? Burn it, damn it!"

"Without looking?" Cullen protested at her crazy idea, "I'll burn you, Viv!"

"Form the sign! I can take it!"

Cullen obeyed. He felt a tingling in his fingers, forming the Sign of Igni just above the sorceress' ankles. Vivienne turned her head to bite the neck of her tunic, stifling a moan. The young dragon nestled his wings against her, chirping.

"Viv!"

"Burn the rope!" she wailed.

The bonds finally gave way as the foul smell of charred meat became intolerable. Dorregaray issued a strange sound before fainting, sagging in his bonds against the wheel of the wagon. The sorceress, face twisted with pain, sat back and extended a freed leg. She cried out in a voice full of rage and suffering. The medallion Cullen wore at his neck trembled as though it were alive. Vivienne shifted her hips and gestured with her leg towards the wagons of the Holopole militia and called out a spell. The air vibrated and filled with the smell of ozone.

"Oh! By the Gods!" Alistair moaned with awe. "What a ballad it will be, Vivienne !"

The spell cast by her pretty leg did not quite succeed. The first wagon and everyone inside it took on a shade of buttercup yellow which the warriors Holopole, blinded by the heat of battle, did not even notice. The spell was more effective on the second wagon: all its crew were instantly transformed into huge pimply frogs which fled, croaking comically, in all directions. The wagon, deprived of a driver, turned over and smashed onto the ground. Dragging the torn off tongue behind them, the horses disappeared into the distance, neighing hysterically.

Vivienne bit her lip, raising her leg once more. The buttercup yellow wagon, accompanied by a rousing music coming from somewhere above, was reduced to a cloud of smoke of the same colour; all of the crew, dazed, crashed to the grass, forming a picturesque heap. The wheels of the third wagon became square: the horses reared up, the wagon collapsed in on itself and the Holopole militiamen were ejected. Out of pure spite, Vivienne moved her leg again, and with an additional charm, transformed all of them at random into turtles, geese, millipedes, pink flamingos or suckling pigs. The Fog Warriors expertly and methodically dispatched the others.

The dragon, finally tearing the net to pieces, jumped up, flapping its wings. It roared and flew like an arrow in pursuit of Kozojed, who had succeeded in escaping the massacre. The shoemaker ran like a gazelle, but the dragon was faster. Cullen, seeing its open maw and flashing teeth as sharp as daggers, turned away. He heard a bloodcurdling scream then a terrible crunch. Alistair stifled a cry. Vivienne, pale as all the blood drained from her face, doubled over and turned around to vomit under the wagon. The silence which followed was broken only by the croaking, squawking and shrieking of the survivors of the Holopole militia.

Vea stood over Vivienne  legs wide apart, wearing a nasty smile. The Fog Warriors drew her sword. Vivienne, pale, raised her leg.

"No," interrupted Borch, alias Three Jackdaws, sat on a stone. He held in his arms the young dragon, calm and happy as the dragon tail slithered up and away under his tunic, "We will not kill Lady Vivienne," the dragon Villentretenmerth continued. "There's no point now. Besides, we are now grateful to Lady Vivienne for her invaluable help. Release them, Vea."

"Did you know, Cullen?" Alistair murmured, rubbing his numb hands. "Did you know? There's an ancient ballad about a golden dragon. Golden dragons can—"

"Can take all forms," completed the Templar taking off his tunic and handing it over to Vivienne, "even human form. I've also heard about it, but I didn't believe it."

"Mr. Yarpen Zigrin!" the dragon called out to the dwarf hanging on the vertical cliff wall, about two hundred cubits above the ground, "What are you looking for up there? Marmots? They are not to your taste, if I remember rightly. Get down, I beg you, and busy yourself with the Reavers. They need assistance. Killing is over for today. It's better for everybody."

Alistair tried to wake the still unconscious Dorregaray, casting anxious glances at the Fog Warriors who continued to survey the battlefield attentively. Cullen salved and dressed Vivienne's burnt ankles. The sorceress hissed in pain and muttered curses under her breath.

Having finished with this task, Cullen got up, "Stay here," he said, "I need to talk to the dragon."

Vivienne, wincing, rose, "I'll go with you, Cullen." She took him by the hand. "Can I? Please, Cullen."

"With me, Viv? I thought that—"

"Don't think." She clung to his shoulder.

"Viv?" he said as he helped to steady her. 

She gave him a smile, "Everything is okay now, Cullen."

He looked into her eyes, which were now as warm as they once were in the past. He bent and kissed her on the lips. They were hot, soft and yearning. As they once were in the past. They approached the dragon. Vivienne, supported by Cullen , made a very low courtesy as if she were before a king, holding the hemline of her dress with the tips of her fingers.

"Three Jack-... Villentretenmerth...," stated the Templar.

"My name means literally in your language ' three black birds '," explained Borch. The young dragon clutched Three Jackdaws' forearm with its claws and stretched out his neck to receive a caress, "Order and Chaos," said Villentretenmerth, smiling, "Remember, Cullen? Chaos represents aggression, while order represents the means to protect itself from it. Shouldn't we go to the ends of the earth to stand against aggression and evil, Cullen? Especially when, as you said, the wage is attractive. As it was in this case. It was the treasure of the female dragon. Myrgatabrakke, poisoned near Holopole. It was she who called me so that I could help her to neutralize the evil that threatened her. Myrgatabrakke flew off shortly after Eyck de Denesle had been removed from the field of battle. She had time to escape during your debates and quarrels, leaving me her treasure, in other words, my wage."

The young dragon chirped and flapped its wings.

Vivienne looked at the young dragon as she said softly, "Therefore, you—"

"Yes," interrupted the dragon, "It's necessary in this day and age. The creatures that you commonly call monsters have felt, for some time, more and more threatened by humans. They don't know how to defend themselves and they need a protector... a  _ Templar _ ."

Cullen rubbed at his face, "And the goal at the end of the path?"

"Here it is." Villentretenmerth raised his forearm; frightened, the young dragon started to chirp, "Here is my goal, my purpose. Thanks to him, I shall prove, Cullen of Rivia, that there is no limit as to what's possible. You too, one day, will discover such a purpose, Templar. Even those who are different deserve to live. Goodbye, Cullen. Goodbye, Vivienne."

Cullen thought of Abelas. Of her birth and her parentage. An immortal elf who had been the herald of death itself and treated as a queen. And  _ him,  _ her father, who marched across the known world conquering everything he saw fit to. He had been told time and time again that Abelas was going to do something horrible and he would caught in the middle of it. 

He doubted it. 

The sorceress courtesied once again, steadying herself firmly on Cullen's shoulder. Villentretenmerth stood up and looked at her, his face very serious, "Excuse my boldness and my frankness, Vivienne. It's written on your faces, I don't even need to read your thoughts. You were made for each other, you and the Templar. But nothing will come of it. Nothing. I'm sorry."

"I know." Vivienne turned a little, "I know, Villentretenmerth. But I too would like to believe that there is no limit as to what's possible or at least that this limit is very distant."

Vea went up to Cullen . She whispered to him, touching his shoulder. The dragon laughed.

"Cullen, Vea wants you to know that she will never forget the tub at the Pensive Dragon. She hopes that she will see you again."

"What?" Vivienne asked tightly, blinking anxiously.

"Nothing," the Templar replied quickly, "Villentretenmerth..."

"I'm listening, Cullen of Rivia."

"You can take all forms. Whatever you wish?"

"Yes."

"Why transform into a human? Why Borch, with the coat of arms of three black birds?"

The dragon gave him a broad smile, "It's hard for me to say, Cullen , in what circumstances our respective forefathers had their first meeting, but I know that for dragons nothing is more loathsome than man. Man awakens in dragons an instinctive and irrational hatred. I am an exception. To me... you are quite likeable. Goodbye."

It was not a gradual transformation, like the hazy disappearance of an illusion. It took place in the blink of an eye. In place of where there was, a moment earlier, a curly-haired knight in a tunic adorned with three black birds there now appeared a golden dragon, stretching his long slender neck gracefully. Bowing his head, the dragon unfurled wings that shone brilliant gold in the rays of the sun. Vivienne sighed loudly.

Vea, already in the saddle next to Tea, waved goodbye.

"Vea," said the Templar loudly, "you were right."

She turned to look at him,"Hmm?"

"He is definitely the most beautiful."


End file.
